


Perchance to Dream

by LemmingDancer



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Friendship/Love, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemmingDancer/pseuds/LemmingDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Robinson always suspected he would die alone. When a straightforward case leads him into the tangled web of Melbourne's organized crime, it looks like he just might. Phryne Fisher could extricate him, if only she knew he needed rescuing. Romance, angst, friendship, and chiseled cheekbones. What could go wrong? It's got a dark start, but I'm a happy endings girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, y' all! I'm a Yank…sorry…(I never know if I should apologize for that). Anyway, while rather too much period UK and AU TV has allowed words like, well, "rather", to creep into my vocabulary, I'm afraid I'm still 'murican. I sincerely apologize for butchering any dialogue or accidentally spelling jail like that instead of like gaol (that's a neat one guys).
> 
> This is intended to be mostly spoiler-free post season 1 and embed-able at any point in season 1 or 2. And hopefully season 3? Fingers crossed. It will be light on mystery, and heavy on angst, drama, and unabashed romance.
> 
> The title is from Hamlet's "To be, or not to be" soliloquy. This is a cross-post with fanfiction.net, and I'm still learning this system, so forgive my fails.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson had always suspected he would die alone. The war had taught him that no matter how many men were dying with you, or around you, or even because of you, the last moments of any life were solitary ones. He had held his friends' hands as they went slack and he had watched the eyes of his enemies as they drifted skyward, sightless, and he had learned this truth. But even so, when a day full of corpses and crime ended with a night full of nightmares, and he sat in his echoing house beside a cold fireplace, he imagined his own death and knew it would be particularly comfortless and companion-less. There would be no graceful old age, no friends gathered around his sickbed, no children or grandchildren to lighten the last of Jack Robinson's time on this earth. His death would be a lonely one, as most of his life had been. He knew this should have saddened him, but all he could feel during the darkest of those contemplations was a vague sense of relief at the thought: at some point he could stop pretending to be alive.

Given his present circumstances, that point might be rather sooner than later. Which, Jack was surprised to find, actually bothered him. If he'd had the time, he might have wondered at the change. But he had somewhere he needed to go, or…someone he needed to see? Was that it? No, that wasn't it. There was someone he _wanted_ to see. Well then, Jack, better get to it, he thought.

Jack inhaled, choked on blood, and coughed. Cautiously, he opened one eye. The other seemed to have swollen shut. The room was featureless, except for a naked bulb that cast a flickering yellow light and heavy, steel paneled door. Jack was lying on his side with his face in a shallow puddle and his hands bound behind his back.

Well, this is certainly not ideal, he thought. Restraints certainly could be fun, in the right time and place, but this was most definitely not it. Jack blinked. When had his internal monologue begun to sound like Miss Fisher?

Miss Fisher! The thought of her brought on a wave of recollection. The Honorable, Fascinating, Frustrating Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective. She was sparkling wit, effervescent personality, and sequined charm, and she would put the pieces of this case together, probably faster than Jack had. She would find him.

If she looked.

Jack's heart sank and he let out his breath in a sigh, settling his face a little deeper into the scum on the floor as he deflated. Phryne Fisher would not look for him. Even if she had known that he needed looking for, she would not do so.

He had intended to consult her, he had been on her doorstep with the case file in hand, because he wanted her opinion (and certainly not because he missed her), when Mr. Butler had opened the door a crack and made a polite excuse for his mistress. As he had many times already, Jack berated himself for his detective's habits, for wondering why Miss Fisher really couldn't see him, and for pausing long enough on the stoop to inadvertently find out. Jack could still hear her throaty laugh echoing in the hallway, the low rumble of a male voice answering her, and the creak of footsteps on the stairs. If he had any doubt about how Miss Fisher intended to spend her evening, the pity in Mr. Butler's eyes as he met the inspector's erased it. And Jack's behavior at their next crime scene would have just as effectively erased any reason Miss Fisher…Phryne might have had to come looking for him. Even in the privacy of his own mind, Jack hesitated to call her by her given name. It was more than a name, it had power, for him and over him.

Jack bit his lip and instantly regretted it. He had dim memories of his abduction, and a thorough beating figured quite prominently in them. They wanted to know what Jack knew, who he had talked to about the details of the case, which constables had worked it and how much they knew. If (or when) he told them, they would kill him.

And so, as he had always predicted, he was going to die alone. And his last words to the one person who might have saved him from that fate had been barbed, thrown at her to hurt her. She had given as good as she got, as she always did. They knew each other well enough; they knew each other's sore spots. Jack winced, feeling as if he'd been punched in the gut, which he supposed he had at some point. But knowing that Phryne would blame herself when his corpse turned up hurt more than the wounds to his body. His angry words would be forgotten, and she would dwell on hers. She would not remember that he had pushed her away by being unfairly and un-rightfully jealous, but she would believe that she should have done more.

That was unacceptable. A woman so alive should not have her spirit tarnished by the death of man who couldn't really remember how to live. Jack couldn't live, or die, with that on his conscience. So he'd better not die, then.

Ever the scientist, Jack wiggled his fingers experimentally. He was still trying to decide whether they'd moved or not, his hands seemed to have gone quite numb, when the door was thrown open with a crash.

* * *

The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher was beginning to think she would die of boredom. Inviting Aunt Prudence for tea had seemed like a good idea at the time. Or rather, it had been her only idea for filling a painfully long gap in her otherwise frenetically busy day. Phryne didn't disapprove of inactivity per se, but she knew herself and it wasn't her style. But she should also have known Aunt P droning on about Melbourne society wouldn't be an adequate distraction. It was hardly engaging in the best of times, and though Phryne hated to admit it, these were not the best of times. As it had done at every idle moment over the past three days, her mind drifted back to the last time she had seen detective inspector Jack Robinson.

Aunt Prudence's mouth continued to flap, Phryne noticed dispassionately, but the only voice she could hear was the detective inspector's rasping in her ears.

_It does not matter how many murders you solve, Miss Fisher, you will never bring Janie back. You'll never absolve yourself of the guilt you feel for her death._

Her eyes began to burn, a sure precursor to tears. Sipping her tea, Phryne took herself firmly in hand. This wouldn't do, crying at the memory of what some man had said to her. Even if that man was Jack. She tried to concentrate on her Aunt's glowing report of the most recent fundraising event for the hospital. Immaculate in her favorite white trousers and a gauzy top, Phryne Fisher was the picture of a modern, stylish woman. None of her inner turmoil showed in her appearance, though her household had surely noticed her recent, dramatic increase in commitments.

She wished desperately for a case to work on. Collins was a fixture of the household, and he brought regular updates about work at the station. It sounded like Jack was investigating something interesting…

Jack again. Phryne shook her head violently, as if she could shake him out of it, wishing she could shake the man himself for…for being so…impossible. For being Jack.

Oh for a case of her own! Phryne would settle for a philandering husband, even a kidnapped poodle, at this point.

"Miss?" Dot interrupted from the hallway tentatively.

"Yes Dot?" Phryne asked, trying to mask her relief. From the way Aunt Prudence sniffed, she hadn't quite succeeded.

"Hugh, that is Constable Collins, would like to talk to you. He's quite upset," her companion explained apologetically. The worry in her wide brown eyes suggested the feeling was catching.

"If you'll excuse me please," Phryne made her exit. As she reached the hall she turned and added, surprised at herself, "Thank you for keeping me company today, Aunt Prudence."

She left her Aunt looking gratified, and slightly taken aback.

Hugh was standing in the kitchen, fidgeting, the teacup and biscuit on the table before him both untouched. He had taken off his helmet, and was passing it back and forth from hand to hand.

"He's here, isn't he miss? The detective inspector? Please?" he asked. Phryne suppressed the urge to give a biting retort. She wasn't sure what he was begging her for, but she couldn't give it.

"Of course he isn't," she replied a little more harshly than she intended, "I haven't seen him since…" since they had a shouting match at Wednesday morning's crime scene "…since the dead wharfie."

"I was hoping he, or you, or the two of you….would have worked out your…uh, differences," he was struggling to find the words, "and maybe he was here, discussing the case with you."

Giving up trying to explain his reasoning, Hugh collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

"Explain," Phryne commanded in her most no-nonsense voice.

"Well, we worked through the case from Wednesday. You know, the usual tracking down of witnesses and family members and so on." Phryne ground her teeth at his pace, but talking about routine seemed to settle the constable.

He continued, "I, well everyone really, we were…"

"Avoiding the inspector?" Phryne interjected, her lips twitching in amusement in spite of herself. The young constables of City South were positively terrified of their chief detective inspector.

"He doesn't bite, Hugh," she said. Although Phryne suspected in the right time and place, he might be a bit of a biter. It was always the quiet ones. Neither relevant nor appropriate, Miss Fisher, she thought to herself. She pretended not to notice that her conscience sounded very like Jack these days.

Hugh pursed his lips and then continued.

"We just slid everything under his door yesterday. I thought he arrived before me and left after, we all did. But when I slid the coroner's report under the door today…"

"He'd never picked up yesterday's files?" Phryne asked, though she knew the answer already. She grabbed the back of the chair in front of her for support. Her knees felt strangely weak suddenly.

"No, miss," Collins couldn't meet her eyes, "I don't think anyone has seen him since…since the dead wharfie."

"He's been missing for three days."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Jack is in the custody of nasties, and Phryne has just begun to grasp that something is amiss.

Phryne wrenched the Espano-Suiza to the curb and cut the engine, spilling out of the car and into a middle-class neighborhood. The sound of her door slamming echoed up and down the quiet street. The bungalow before her looked just like every house on the block: small, neat homes in greens, grays and tans marching away on either side. There was nothing about this little front yard or its cleanly swept porch to indicate the house was special, but it belonged to Jack Robinson. And that made it special indeed, to Phryne Fisher's way of thinking.

As she waited, toe tapping, for Hugh to join her at the gate, Phryne tried to imagine Jack's ex-wife, Rosie, sweeping up onto the porch in her elegant furs. She tried to see her trotting down the walk to get the post, or chatting over the fence with the overworked mother next door. Phryne credited herself with an active imagination, but she couldn't quite picture it.

"Are you sure about this, Miss?" Collins asked as he caught up. He took off his helmet and swiped an arm across the beads of sweat on his forehead without tearing his eyes away from Jack's front door.

"Of course I'm sure, Hugh," Phryne responded as lightly as she could. Hugh looked a bit ragged around the edges, even more harried than usual, though whether that was from worrying about the inspector or from the drive, Phryne couldn't tell.

She continued talking over her shoulder as she pushed open the gate and strode up the walk, heels clacking against the concrete, "The first place you must always check in a missing persons case is their residence. Jack could have decided to take a last minute trip to visit family, or perhaps he's caught a cold, or maybe he's decided it isn't too late for a career in the theatre after all and has joined a travelling troupe. He might even have gone to support his ex-wife; she's had a rough time of it recently."

She disliked _that_ particular line of thought, but Phryne had come up with dozens of other reasons for the inspector's absence, each more outrageous than the last. But no matter how she turned it in her mind, Phryne could not explain why Jack hadn't called the station. After almost two years of working cases together, after two years playing opposite Jack in tragedies and comedies writ large across Melbourne, Phryne trusted her sense of the man. She couldn't imagine him shirking his duties, unless circumstances were dire. And even then he would have called, if he were able.

Phryne didn't see any reason to work Collins further into a panic with that insight, so she kept quiet. There's one for the books, she thought, keeping quiet on any subject! She fixed it in her mind to tell Jack about later. He would appreciate the irony of it with one of his half-smile smirks and that almost wicked look in his eyes. If he was speaking to her later. Of course, she usually didn't give him much choice in the matter.

"I just don't think the inspector would tolerate it, Miss. Us breaking into his house, I mean. I'm sure the housekeeper would have a key. She might even have heard from the inspector! This is hardly the proper way…"

"The proper way is overrated, not to mention time-consuming. I'm guessing you'd prefer to find Jack safe and sound, as soon as possible?"

Not waiting for a response, Phryne pressed her face to the window in the front door, cupping her hands around her eyes and squinting into the house. It faced south, and the blinding brightness outside made it difficult to make anything out in the dim room. Phryne could see that the entry opened into the main living area. Light spilled out of two doors in the far wall, leading further into the house. Through one, she could see a stove and part of a table. The other likely led to the bedroom, or bedrooms.

"Nothing obviously amiss," she told Hugh. He sucked in a breath, no doubt to resume his argument against disturbing the inspector's privacy, but Phryne didn't give him a chance to speak.

"If he's taken clothes, we know he left of his own accord. There could be something to indicate where he's gone, receipts or notes. And I can't see the whole house."

Phryne tried the door, just in case, but it was locked. A few moments of jiggery-pokery on Phryne's part, to the accompaniment of Hugh's largely incoherent objections, and Jack's front door swung open smoothly. With a smug smile, she straightened.

Then Phryne Fisher did something she seldom did. She hesitated. Phryne had always considered breaking and entering a perfectly valid investigative tool, especially when desperate times called for desperate measures. And she was feeling just a little bit desperate. But for the first time in her career as a lady detective, she felt more like an intruder than an investigator.

"Don't be ridiculous, Hugh," she told the still sputtering constable as she stepped over the door jamb, overruling his objections and her own, "I'm sure the inspector will understand."

The inside of Jack's house looked exactly as Phryne would have imagined, had she ever thought to do so. The large, rectangular front room had the usual assortment of arm chairs, settees and occasional tables, all in immaculate condition. An empty curio cabinet occupied one short wall, a narrow table sat alone in the middle of the other. The walls were bare of art and the tabletops were empty of knick knacks. Jack's housekeeper couldn't be very good, Phryne decided, as a fine layer of dust had settled on every surface, even the seats of the chairs.

An old but lovingly maintained road cycle leaned against the wall just inside the door. It was the only object in the room that looked as if it had been touched in under a year. Phryne ran one hand across the frame as she contemplated it. At least one mystery was solved. She no longer had to wonder how Jack Robinson managed to make his otherwise unremarkable wool trousers look so handsome.

Dust motes floated in the beams of light in the doorways. Phryne resisted the urge to pull off her clacking heels as she progressed further into the room. She felt as if she had shown up to Sunday morning services wearing Friday night's party clothes, or as if she was tap dancing in a tomb. Practically tip toeing, she peered around the kitchen. It was small, clean and empty.

The other doorway led to a short hallway. The first room was a tiny, but functional powder room. The second had clearly once been the main bedroom. It was as lifeless as the rest of the house. In the entrance to the last, Phryne paused again, this time in surprise.

Jack obviously spent most of his time in this room. A worn leather armchair and matching ottoman sat at the far side of the room, beneath the north facing windows. A battered desk shared the space, its surface littered with papers, some of which had fallen to the floor. But what truly made the room exceptional was what lined the other the walls.

Some men drank and others gambled, but books were Jack's addiction. Phryne knew that assembling the volumes in the floor to ceiling bookshelves flanking the doorway and stretching across the side walls had been the work of a lifetime. She shook her head, setting her the tips of her bob dancing across her cheeks. She should have known.

Hugh peeked around her shoulder into the room.

"Miss? Is that blood?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Phryne shut her eyes and forced a deep breath into her suddenly tight chest before kneeling to examine a fist sized stain on the carpet. She touched the rusty blotch with gloved fingers; it flaked onto her fingertips. She sniffed. It had the copper tang of blood.

"Yes Hugh. There isn't much of it," but it doesn't belong here, she finished silently. Her detective's instincts were clamoring, screaming foul play. She examined the rest of the room through narrowed eyes.

The messy desk. That was out of character too. Phryne tried to remember a point when Jack's desk at City South had been disorganized, but couldn't think of any. So someone had rifled through his paperwork, and very possibly absconded with some of it.

"Hugh, where is the file for the case Jack was working on? The dead wharfie…is it at the station?"

"Not that I could see, Miss." Hugh was moving the papers on the desk with one index finger, touching as little as possible.

"What else was he looking into?" she asked. He shrugged.

Phryne perched on the edge of the arm chair, then sprawled back in it and put her feet up on the ottoman, looking around the room as Jack would see it. Jack's scent enveloped her, as tangible as a hug, filling her nose with the smell of soap, leather, and wool. She'd bet her hat that he slept here more often than he did in the barren room next door.

Her eyes passed unseeing across the spines of the books, then she blinked. Was that… _Anthony and Cleopatra_? It protruded from the bookshelf just a bit, standing out from the even line of books on either side.

Springing up, Phryne flew across the room and yanked the book off the shelf. She thumbed through it, then turned it upside and shook it. Phryne's stomach twisted, she'd been so sure that it wasn't a coincidence, Jack didn't believe in coincidences…

Then a piece of paper fell from the pages, drifting slowly to the floor. Phryne snatched it up.

"314159" was scrawled across the slip of paper, in Jack's unmistakably bad hand. One of the edges was rough where it had been torn from his police notebook.

"A rego maybe?" Hugh asked.

"Excellent thinking Hugh!"

Hugh was already hurrying back to the front room and the telephone. As he called the station to request the registration information, Phryne could do nothing but pace around Jack's unlived-in living room and think. She did not like where her thoughts took her.

Someone had abducted Jack, her Jack Robinson, carefully and professionally. They hadn't tossed the place, so they got what they came for: the case file and the inspector himself.

There had to be more to this case than a dock worker who had apparently drunk himself to death in a gutter! She berated herself for not paying more attention at the scene.

When Phryne had flounced into the investigation Wednesday morning, three days and a lifetime ago, Jack's face was as still as stone. Phryne had caught herself wondering irrelevantly if one could cut glass on those cheekbones of his. He accepted her presence in silence, all her flirting and banter rolling of him like raindrops off his omnipresent trench coat. But what truly bothered Phryne, more than his silence and even his stillness, was the glassiness of his normally sparkling eyes. He looked at her across the corpse between them with a dead man's eyes.

She exhausted her charm and her wit on him, without ever seeing an answering glint in his eyes, so Phryne fell to her last recourse. She picked a fight. She thought any response, even anger, would be an improvement.

She was wrong.

Phryne kicked an unoffending table leg in frustration. Mr. Butler's quiet explanation had come too late this time. Jack had stopped by to consult on a case and his timing had been less than ideal.

"George Culver, got it," Hugh said, scribbling details into his notebook as he hung up abruptly.

As they left, Phryne closed the door carefully behind her. She wished she could lock it again, but it was a futile thought. The most important thing in the house had already been stolen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Phyrne knows Jack has been abducted, and has little more than a name (George Culver) and a vehicle registration with which to track him down. Meanwhile, Jack's situation has gotten worse…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit violent. I toned the original draft down quite a bit, but consider yourself warned. Also, I dislike sad endings, so don't worry your hearts too much.

Burning the case file in front of him had been a little melodramatic, Jack thought hazily. Not that anyone was asking for his opinion at present. Despite his occasional flair for the dramatic, Jack disapproved of melodrama. Unfortunately, he seemed destined to be on the receiving end of quite a bit of it.

Besides the laughable predictability of it, destroying the papers was largely an empty gesture. It might take some time, but a clever detective could track down copies of everything but Jack's notes. And the biggest clue had never been in the file at all. When he'd heard the creak of the floorboard in the front room, Jack had hidden it somewhere only a particularly clever lady detective would find it, if she looked for it. He had no doubt Collins would go to Miss Fisher for help when he realized Jack was missing. He just had to hope she would give it.

A boot collided with his stomach, and Jack curled around it involuntarily, coughing onto a grubby cuff. So his captors had returned then.

He'd nicknamed them Shorty and Red. He could imagine how Miss Fisher would roll her eyes at that. _That was the best you could come up with, Jack? Let me guess which is which!_

Red grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. Shorty paced back in forth in front of them, sucking on a gasper. He stopped to blow smoke in Jack's face.

"How much do ya' know about our operation?" he drawled.

Not all that much, Jack thought, staring past Shorty to a point in the middle distance over his left shoulder. He'd chased rumors for weeks while he mopped up another corruption case, following whispers. But he might never have connected the dead man at the docks with the smuggler's racket, if he hadn't seen the exceptionally posh car at his crime scene. And he'd only seen it because Miss Fisher had nearly crashed into it as she pulled into traffic with more than her usual recklessness.

Shorty swung lazily, hitting Jack in the stomach again. They had already questioned him twice, and Jack was glad they weren't particularly creative interrogators.

"The boss wants a word," Shorty added, punctuating his statement by spitting in the inspector's face. Jack wiped the slime from his cheek on his shoulder and tried to breathe evenly. Red snorted at him, laughing at what probably seemed like a paltry attempt to recover his dignity. What the thug didn't know was that after nearly two years in Miss Fisher's company, Jack had developed an altogether different definition of dignity, one that was not so easily dented.

A well dressed man sauntered into the room. His apparel marked him as wealthy, from the toes of his polished shoes to the gold cuff links and his creamy three-piece suit. Even the buttons on his jacket looked expensive. But above his crisp collar, his chin was covered in a week's growth of uneven stubble and his face shown with a film of grease. He was fat, balding, and vaguely familiar. Jack's brow furrowed as he tried to place the man's face.

"Well, ain't that the best of news!" the newcomer exclaimed, as if Jack had spoken.

Jack could smell liquor on his breath as he leaned in conspiratorially, "I was startin' to think they broke that smart head of yours," he explained.

He stepped back. Red dropped Jack's arms and the inspector collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Now boys, that ain't no way to be treatin' a gentleman," the man said.

"I'm Smith, Robbie Smith," the man continued, taking a puff of the gasper Shorty had passed him. He knocked the ash off the end onto Jack.

Sure you are, Jack thought, studying the man's shoe laces.

"And you, you're Chief Detective Inspector Jack Robinson," he turned Jack's title into an insult.

"Now we been introduced all proper, how about you tell me what you know about me an' mine."

Smith gestured, and Red dragged Jack into a seated position, leaning back against the wall. The crook crouched on his heels in front of the inspector, and their eyes locked. Jack allowed his head to drift back to rest on the rough panels behind him, despite the pain in his arms, and looked down his nose at the man.

"You two, out," Smith commanded without breaking eye contact with Jack, "Reckon it's time we had ourselves a conversation."

Jack had never been verbose, but the war had made him even terser. It hardly seemed worth the effort find the right words, when there were so few really worth saying. While it felt almost natural to him, Jack had gradually realized that stony silence made other people extremely uncomfortable.

"I don't take kindly to it, when strangers come sniffin' around my business," Smith said.

It had become one of Jack's favorite interrogation techniques, just sitting across from a criminal, watching and waiting.

"Who else was workin' with you? I been playin' nice so far, but I ain't goin' to for much longer…" an edge was creeping into Smith's tone.

Of course, this trick had never worked on Miss Fisher. She not only talked enough for both of them, she also managed to drag him into her conversations. Not that it was difficult. It surprised Jack how easily he responded to Miss Fisher' banter, the two of them going back and forth like two children playing catch on the beach. She caught his meaning even when he couldn't find the words to toss in her direction. It gave him the strangest feeling, one of those feelings that he'd lost the words for.

Jack smiled. Smith raged.

"You goin' to tell me what you know about Dory, an' who else knows it," Smith was panting now, uncontrolled anger twisting his features into a mask.

Jack blinked slowly. Doris Culver? Why was this scumbag worried about George Culver's wife? He realized suddenly why Robert 'Smith' looked so familiar.

The crook held Jack's gaze for another heartbeat before heaving himself to his feet. He pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves as he went back to the door. Jack could hear his voice echoing across a wide space as he shouted for his mates.

"Alright then boys," he yelled, "it's time and past we got serious."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Jack has fallen into the clutches of Robert Smith, who seems familiar, and wants to know what information our intrepid inspector has gathered. Phryne is putting together the pieces of the missing case file, and tracking down the owner of a car that showed up at their crime scene, one George Culver.

Although Phryne wanted to charge straight into George Culver's home demanding the return of her dour detective with her pistol drawn, the Jack-voice in her head urging caution prevailed. Besides, if she got shot or arrested threatening a man who might have nothing to do with his disappearance, she'd be no help to Jack at all.

Collins twitched and let out an inarticulate cry of alarm as Phryne pulled into oncoming traffic to pass a slow driver. Deciding they were near enough to the station not to bother with the proper side of the road anyway, she sped up the block and careened into a spot between two police cars. She had thrown open the station door and pushed through to Jack's office before Hugh had recovered enough to tumble out of the car.

Grasping the door knob to Jack's office, she nearly walked straight into the door when it failed to open. Someone had locked it.

"Hugh, come and unlock this door. Quickly, please," Phryne called. Propping one fist on her hip, she gave the door another irritated jiggle.

When Hugh didn't instantly appear at her elbow with the keys, Phryne turned to look around the station for the first time.

The whole of City South seemed to have gathered in the room: constables, sergeants and inspectors, off-duty men as well as the regular shift. They were looking at her with expressions that ranged from suspicion to open hostility. Phryne suppressed the urge to scowl. Surely she'd proven her intelligence, and if not that, at least her utility to the constabulary? Especially now, when she was trying to find their chief inspector, Phryne had hoped for more cooperation.

"If you could just hand me the keys, Henry," Hugh asked pointing to where they sat on the counter. Henry, a broad-faced young man with eyes that were too close together, picked up the keys, then looked to one of the inspectors uncertainly. The ranking officer jerked his head in a sharp refusal.

Phryne's hands balled into fists at her sides. She cast about in her mind, searching through and discarding a dozen different lines of argument, even as another part of her wailed in frustration at the delay.

"Miss Fisher is going to help us find the inspector," Hugh said, just as Phryne opened her mouth to tell them all to bugger off if they couldn't be useful.

"And why would we want this…woman…to help with anything?" the angry inspector said scathingly.

Hugh faltered, hating to argue with a senior officer. But his overwhelming worry for his idol won out even over his fear of his other superiors.

"The inspector would want us all to work together," Hugh said after clearing his throat nervously.

Several men shook their heads, and Phryne was surprised to see more than one lip curled in disgust. She knew that few men in the police force, or the rest of Melbourne for that matter, understood or approved of Jack's partnership with her. Sometimes Phryne herself couldn't explain why it worked so well, though she wasn't in the habit of trying. But the undertone of aggression in the room was new, and worrisome.

"Do you think he really would, Hugh?" Henry asked earnestly, still holding the keys hostage.

"He would," Hugh replied a little more confidently.

"The inspector always puts police business first. He always does the right thing for a case, no matter what happened," he continued, meeting the eyes of the men around him.

Understanding hit Phryne like a punch to the stomach. This wasn't about Jack's apparent concession to her every demand, or even about her unconventional…everything. It was about Wednesday morning's row at the crime scene. No doubt some of the men still thought Jack a fool for getting involved with her in the first place, but they had united in their outrage on his behalf. Phryne shut her eyes, trying to block out the accusatory stares of Jack's colleagues.

What had she said to Jack, in front of half a dozen of his fellow coppers? _His_ words had haunted her for days, shadowing her waking hours and echoing in her restless dreams, but she'd studiously avoided recalling what she'd said to him.

"I'm just not sure how much help she could possibly be," the angry inspector continued, crossing his arms as he snarled at Phryne, "I'm not putting much faith in the investigative powers of some woman who has somehow deduced that Jack Robinson is small-minded and uneducated."

Phryne flinched as if he'd struck her. It had been amazing how quickly attempts at banter had devolved into needling little insults, and those had become full frontal attacks on each other's deepest insecurities.

She drew a deep breath to speak, but let it out without a word. Phryne had led an unapologetic life, and she had no intention of changing now. And the person who might, possibly, have deserved an apology was conspicuously absent.

"That's in the past, gentlemen. Right now, it's the inspector's future I'm worried about," she said finally.

A few of the men shifted uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. She had them there, and they knew it.

"Excuse me, Miss?" an unexpected but very familiar voice asked from the door, "…I just thought, what with everything, I'm sure no one has had time to step out for lunch, so I brought one. Well, I brought as many as we could put together. Can't think straight with an empty stomach, and straight thinking is what the inspector needs."

Dot marched resolutely into the midst of the surprised men, putting sandwiches in hands and calling for tea cups as she went, ending the standoff with picnic baskets rather than bloodshed. Phryne shot her a look of gratitude, and promised herself that once this was over, she'd take her companion on a lavish retreat.

Henry handed over the keys in exchange for a biscuit, and Hugh was soon unlocking the door.

Jack's office looked exactly as it always looked. The battered trophies still lined the shelves and the surface of the desk was tidy; nothing was out-of-place except the pile of reports on the floor immediately inside the door. Something felt off to Phryne, but she couldn't place what.

She scooped up the papers and minced into the room, plopping herself down in her usual chair as she rifled through the folders for the coroner's report.

"Alcohol poisoning?" she exclaimed in disbelief, looking up and across the desk to Jack's chair. Her heart twisted in her chest to see it empty.

Hugh, who was still standing in the doorway, responded, "Yes, Miss. Just what it looked like. I don't understand what a dead drunk could possibly have to do with the inspector's disappearance."

"And you've no idea what else he was working on?"

"Well, no. I thought he was just finishing up other cases, following up on everything," Hugh said.

Phryne frowned. Mr. Butler said that Jack had dropped by to consult on a case. She had assumed that was Jack's euphemism for having a whiskey. What if Jack really _had_ dropped by to talk about whatever he was investigating before the dead wharfie? It would be just like him, to feel he needed work as an excuse to visit.

Deciding there was nothing else of use to be learned from Jack's office, Phryne tossed the papers onto his desk and headed for the door.

"I'm off to the coroner's, Hugh," she said as he scrambled out of her way.

Pausing on the threshold, Phryne looked over the room one more time. There was nothing actually wrong with it, she decided. But without Jack in it, it was just an oddly shaped, institutional little room.

"While I'm gone…" she stopped. Although no one seemed ready to clap her in irons now, mostly because their hands were full of food from her kitchen, the men of City South were still gathered in the station, waiting.

"Something we can look into, Miss?" Henry asked. They all looked at her expectantly. Phryne didn't dwell on the change in attitude. Gratifying as it was, she suspected it had more to do with Dot's biscuits than anything.

"I think Jack left me a hint in…" too hard to explain why she'd been looking for case information in Jack's Shakespeare collection "…his house. Not that he was expecting me at his house…" really, it was impossible to explain without compromising Jack's dignity. And since when did she try?

"The rego, 314159, that we tracked it back to George Culver?"

Phryne blinked at the no-longer-quite-so angry inspector. She should have made more of an effort to learn the other inspectors' names, apparently.

"Yes. Perhaps we could find out a bit more about the man? Property records, profession, that kind of thing? Please?" she added experimentally.

There were nods all around. Phryne forced herself to acknowledge that the somewhat brisk reception she had received from them may have had as much to do with them feeling helpless as anything. And she couldn't afford to hold a grudge, not now.

"I'll ring from the morgue. I intend to go straight to George Culver's address from there," Phryne said, already moving towards the exit.

"Miss Fisher?" the inspector stopped her.

"Yes, Inspector…?"

"Taylor. Will Taylor. We informed the higher-ups, after you phoned from Jack's house. But you should know, it won't make much difference."

Phryne shook her head, utterly mystified. How could they fail to make every effort to track down one of their own?

"Oh, they'll do what they can, or seem to anyway. Jack has never been one to toe the line, but he didn't go looking for trouble. He probably thought everyone was as honest as he is, or didn't want to find out that they weren't. But after that last case…well any number of careers would be more secure, if Jack Robinson took a permanent leave of absence."

"Surely they wouldn't arrange to have one of their own inspectors…" Phryne couldn't finish the sentence. Despite the stuffiness of the overcrowded room, she shuddered. To squander a good man's life, for the sake of a career…the cruelty of it chilled her to the bone.

"I doubt any of them arranged it, I just wouldn't expect them to go out of their way to get him back. But we will. He's not always an easy man to have as a boss, but he's good one, Miss Fisher. He deserves better," Inspector Taylor said. He frowned as he eyed her, and Phryne wondered if the subject had changed. She lifted her chin and frowned back at him, before sweeping out of the station.

Phryne didn't see the glare Dot shot at her beau, but as she jumped into the Espano-Suiza Hugh was pulling himself into the passenger seat. She pursed her lips at the constable, but didn't object. Dr. Johnson, the coroner, had a silly habit of demanding things like badges and proper authority.

* * *

"No word on the inspector, then?" Dr Johnson demanded as Phryne invaded his morgue.

"Abducted by persons unknown, I'm afraid, Dr. Johnson," Phryne said, "Persons who will live to regret it, I assure you."

The old man nodded decisively, and looked almost approving. He blithely ignored Hugh's scandalized look.

"You'll be wanting to see the unidentified male from Wednesday morning, then?" the coroner spread his arms, indicating the body on the table before them as one might invite guests to begin a banquet.

Phryne quirked an eyebrow at the man's uncharacteristic eagerness and gave him her most winning smile. It didn't surprise Phryne that Jack inspired so much loyalty among the men he worked with (the honest ones anyway), but it probably would have surprised the missing inspector.

The lady detective turned her attention to the body before her.

"Alcohol poisoning," Dr. Johnson said helpfully.

"Smells like it. Degeneration of the liver?" Phryne asked with a wrinkled nose.

"No, none."

Strange. The man was a not chronic drinker, then. But he was clearly a chronic eater. He had a rounded paunch, pudgy limbs, and more chins than Phryne cared to count. Thin, greasy black hair ghosted across his shiny pate.

Phryne picked up one of his hands and examined his palms.

"Soft hands," she remarked, as much to herself as anyone.

"Strange for a dock worker," Dr. Johnson observed, echoing Phryne's thoughts.

"Anything else of note, Doctor?" Phryne asked, testing the limits of his new-found cooperation.

"No…" he said, but the furrow in his brow contradicted his words. Phryne forced herself to wait calmly for him to marshal his thoughts, as she knew Jack would have.

"It's not a particularly scientific observation, but his clothes just weren't…right. They wrinkled in the wrong places, and clung to his skin. His jacket wasn't buttoned correctly, either."

"Indeed! A very keen observation, Dr. Johnson," Phryne gushed. Dr. Johnson blinked, and she wondered if perhaps she'd laid it on a bit thick.

"Miss?" Hugh asked in confusion. Phryne had almost forgotten about the young man's presence.

"The dead are remarkably uncooperative, Hugh, especially when it comes to being re-dressed" Phryne said, "This man is no more a wharfie than I am. I'd bet my hat on it."

 _I'm not sure it'd suit me_ , she could almost hear Jack say. She swallowed the lump in her throat and thanked the coroner.

As she'd promised, Phryne rang Inspector Taylor the station next. George Culver was an importer; they were still working on the other details.

An 'importer' with an address in a very wealthy neighborhood, had Jack stumbled into another smuggling case?

"Concentrate on those property records, I'm headed to the Culver residence now," Phryne told Inspector Taylor.

"Please," she added belatedly. A snort from the other end of the line was the only answer before the connection was cut. Hanging up, she turned and nearly crashed into Hugh, who was standing at her elbow.

"You're not going anywhere without me, Miss," Collins said firmly. Phryne considered the young constable through narrowed eyes.

"I'm perfectly capable of conducting an investigation on my own, Hugh."

"I'd never question it, Miss. But the inspector will be very cross with me, when he gets back, if…" Hugh stopped.

When she got Jack back, Phryne didn't know whether she would kiss him or slap him. Probably both, repeatedly.

But she did know she was going to get him back.

"Alright, constable. But I'm driving."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Phryne commandeered City South, ascertained the manner of death (alcohol poisoning), and concluded that the dead man was redressed to look like a wharfie. Robbie Smith attempted to extract information from our Jack…

"No one is coming for you," Robbie said. The crook slouched in a chair in the center of the room with his hands clasped on top of his paunch, looking down at Jack, where he was propped up against the wall.

Jack didn't reply. He'd lost track of the number of times Robbie had questioned him, but he knew he hadn't said anything, or at least, anything coherent.

"Not sure why you're protectin' your fellow coppers, because they ain't lookin'. You ain't the friendliest of bosses, I'm guessin'."

Jack couldn't deny that, couldn't even try. His focus on the man's fat, wool covered ankles didn't waver. Robbie fiddled with his pliers and the silence stretched.

"That woman detective you're _workin'_ with, she ain't lookin'," Robbie added. He said 'working' like it was a dirty word.

Involuntarily, Jack met his eyes. Robbie's lips skinned back from his teeth in the mockery of a smile. He won a point in this game every time Jack reacted. Most of the insults Robbie had hurled at him hadn't struck; Jack had dealt with scores of criminals and he wasn't in the habit of letting them dictate his self-worth. But when Robbie hit him with his own fears, repeated what Jack already half-believed to be true, he drew blood.

"Fancy the trollop, do you? I can't say as I blame you. But she ain't looking for your sorry self."

Jack's head twitched in the barest of shakes. Robbie threw back his head and laughed, laughed until he had to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, because he could see that Jack believed him. Jack knew that Miss Fisher was unflinchingly loyal and even that she cared for him to some degree. But Jack couldn't make himself believe he was worth the risk to her.

Robbie left him, still chuckling. His laugh bounced around between Jack's ears long after he had gone.

Jack squelched his eyes shut and forced his mind away from his body. Silently, he recited the first passage that came to mind: "To be, or not to be, that is the question –," he began. Burying himself in stories and filling his mind with facts was just one of the ways Jack had endured, when his life had become so hollow it practically echoed. He applied the lessons he'd learned from a dozen-odd years of nightmares endured in solitude to this waking one.

First Jack worked through all the Shakespeare he had memorized, and even the operetta. When he ran out of poetry and plays to recite, he counted the number of boards in each wall, then the nails. But as time dragged by, he struggled to concentrate.

The trouble was, Jack decided, at some point he'd started living again, instead of just enduring. The change had been so gradual he hadn't noticed, but now that it looked very much as if he might die, Jack realized he'd been enjoying his life. He spent fewer nights rattling around his house or behind his desk at the station. He skipped fewer meals. He'd even rediscovered his sense of humor, or developed an entirely new one, he didn't know which. But when had all that started? Jack thought back.

It had been in Miss Fisher's parlor, of course. Jack had come to tell her that welfare had agreed to let her foster Jane.

"Can I offer you a drink?" she had asked.

"Uh," Jack had looked at his watch, then the door, then woman in the window seat. He could have said no, made his excuses and returned to paperwork waiting for him in his office or to no one waiting for him at home.

"Perhaps, just the one," he'd replied, as his face reorganized itself into a smile. Only nothing with Miss Fisher was _just_ anything. He'd let one drink become countless nights in her company and one case evolve into a partnership. Hopefully a strong partnership, he amended fuzzily.

His head felt like it might roll off his shoulders if he shook it too hard. Despite the unrelieved heat of the room, Jack felt cold. He wondered if his wounds had gotten infected.

If so, it was likely his hands. He stared down at the right one. There was something wrong with it, apart from the missing fingernails. Jack waited patiently for his mind to identify the anomaly. It wouldn't have looked out of place at the morgue, attached to the end of a dead man's arm, but it was definitely still his hand. He dragged it off the floor and twitched his fingers in a feeble wave to himself.

They hadn't bound his hands! That was so exciting, it almost hurt. Jack shut his eyes until the urge to cry passed. The door would still be locked, the bolt was loud and Robbie delighted in throwing it with enthusiasm, but he was sure he could think of some way to turn this to his advantage. If only he could think.

 _No one is coming for you,_ Jack could hear Robbie say, as if he had whispered it in his ear.

Whether they were searching for him or not, when his body turned up there would be an investigation. He could believe that Phryne would investigate then, even if he couldn't believe she'd look for him now. The smile that twisted his mouth was bitter, but it was a smile. She had taught him how to live again. Fitting, that his death would be their last case. He would help her solve it, at least.

It took him a while, but he managed to remove one of the metal clips from his bracers. Grasping it awkwardly with his swollen fingers, Jack began carving into the spongy wood of the wall.

* * *

Phryne pulled up to the door of George Culver's enormous house at an almost sedate pace. It wouldn't do to give anyone who happened to be watching the impression that she was in a hurry, even if she couldn't recall ever feeling more rushed.

Collins knocked on the door with more authority than Phryne would have given him credit for, and it was answered promptly by a slightly put-upon butler.

"We need to speak to Mr. George Culver, immediately," Phryne told the man.

"It's official police business," Hugh added, as if the presence of a uninformed officer hadn't made that obvious.

"The master of the household is not available," the servant said, already beginning to shut the door. Phryne stopped it with her foot, with no regard for the toe of her fashionable shoe. Or very little regard, at least.

"And the mistress of the household? Mrs. Culver?" Phryne inquired, "As I said, it's a matter of some urgency."

"Official police business," Hugh repeated, presumably having failed to notice the ineffectiveness of the statement.

"Police? It's not…it's not Inspector Robinson?" a well-bred female voice inquired from inside.

Phryne ignored her heart's alarming attempt to leap out of her chest as she shoved passed the butler. She followed the voice down a cluttered hall, into a lavishly decorated parlor. Large, expensive paintings of the hunt, heavy brocade curtains, and thickly upholstered furniture in garish colors all warred for her attention. Although Phryne hated to make the distinction, it was a style she associated with the often self-conscious grandeur of the _nouveau riche_.

"Mrs. Culver? I'm Phryne Fisher," she pushed her card into the woman's hand.

"Doris, Doris Culver," the lady of the house responded, probably from force of habit. Though she was respectably dressed in a modest afternoon frock, she looked like a woman at the end of her endurance. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, nearly swollen shut, and her voice had the sticky sound of unshed tears in it.

"I apologize for the intrusion, but I'm afraid the matter is…quite serious," Phryne said. Quite serious didn't begin to cover it, but she could hardly tell this stranger that the most important man in her life had disappeared from it entirely. Besides, she still didn't know if the Culvers were connected to Jack's abduction.

"I need to speak with Mr. Culver, as soon as possible," Phryne said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

"He's away on business," Mrs. Culver said thickly.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Culver, but it's quite literally a matter of life and death. Can he be reached by telephone? Where has he gone?"

Mrs. Culver choked on a sob and dissolved into tears. A very mortified Collins helped her to a chair, where she melted back into the cushions.

"The inspector…told mbe…it'd be safest if…I didn't say," she managed to gasp out nasally.

Phryne debated. Jack had talked to the woman, had apparently worried about her well-being. Perhaps she was not a suspect; her husband might also be in danger. Besides, Phryne's intuition told her Mrs. Culver wasn't capable of conspiring to abduct a kitten, let alone a policeman. Phryne decided to risk the truth to cut through the lady's hysterics.

"Inspector Robinson has been abducted," Phryne said bluntly. Doris Culver froze, though fat tears continued to roll down her face as she stared at the lady detective.

"All I have is your husband's name," and Jack's blood on the floor, "I need your help, his help, to find the inspector."

"We can't help you," Dorris said tearfully, "He's dead."

The earth tilted on its axis as Phryne's world threatened to come unmoored. Mrs. Culver was sobbing again, clutching at something she pulled from the folds of her dress, but Phryne couldn't hear her over the rushing in her ears. But Mrs. Culver couldn't mean Jack, she sounded as if she had half expected him to drop by.

Doris handed her a much abused photograph. Phryne took it, forced her eyes to see it. A couple looked back at her from the picture. The woman, a younger Doris, was wearing a wedding dress. So the man must be her husband, George. He looked familiar. _Don't let your feelings get in the way of a case, Miss Fisher_.

The man in the picture was the dead man in the morgue.

"Your husband is dead," Phryne stated. Not Jack. The room began to right itself.

Dorris Culver nodded, still sobbing brokenly. Phryne understood the urge. She busied herself by rifling through her purse. High-bred ladies had fainted on her once too often, so she'd taken to carrying a small vial of smelling salts. It looked as if Hugh might need them, only for Mrs. Culver, of course.

They were still trying to get the distressed woman to calm down enough to be sensible when the butler interrupted. He frowned as sternly as good manners would allow at the constable and Phryne before turning to his mistress.

"The younger Mr. Culver is on the telephone for you, ma'am, if you're feeling up to taking a call."

"Of course," Mrs. Culver choked out, before practically running from the room.

Momentarily free from the woman's distracting histrionics, Phryne reviewed the case. George Culver, newly wealthy importer, had died from alcohol poisoning. Someone had dressed his body in rough clothes and left him in a gutter, perhaps hoping he would be written off as just another dead drifter. But why the deception? It would embarrass a rich family, to have a man drown himself in a bottle, but it wasn't all that exotic. Phryne could hardly see Mrs. Culver taking such extreme measures to rid herself of his corpse, couldn't even imagine her asking someone else to do so on her behalf. Really, redressing the body only made sense if someone had wanted him to disappear, if he'd been murdered. Had he been forced to drink himself to death?

Doris returned, visibly calmer. She called for tea with an apology.

"I'm sorry. It has all been such a shock," she said as she sat again, folding her hands in her lap. In her dove grey dress, she looked oddly demure and out of place in the flamboyant room.

"The inspector stopped by on Wednesday…"

"At what time?" Phryne cut in.

"Just before supper. He came to talk to my husband. I thought George was away on business," Mrs. Culver gulped, then forced herself to continue, "Inspector Robinson thought maybe he'd gotten himself mixed up in something…untoward."

"Such as?" Phryne asked with exaggerated patience.

"I really couldn't say. The inspector asked for a picture of George, and then he recognized him. He told me…that George had been found dead," she stopped again to blow her nose with an un-ladylike honk.

"Then he said I'd be safer if I only told a few family members what had happened until he could look into it further," she finished.

"I'm sure he was correct," Phryne said. If Mr. Culver was a kingpin of the Melbourne underworld, he would have dozens of enemies. Other crim would want to eliminate the competition, and he likely had men in his employ willing to kill for a promotion. Even if he had just crossed a smuggler, only dabbled in the seedier side of life, he might have insulted the wrong crook or walked into the wrong dark laneway. And it was always possible that his death had nothing to do with his business.

Phryne didn't have much to go on. But she would turn George Culver's life upside down and shake it until all the possible suspects fell out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Jack has been sufficiently roughed up by Robbie Smith, but hasn't told him anything about the case. Phryne had a chat with Doris Culver. The man in the morgue, who died by alcohol poisoning, was her husband George Culver. He seems to have been involved in something illegal.

Phryne swept into her house in a flutter of activity, calling for Mr. Butler and shedding her hat in the hallway, only to be brought up short by a painfully familiar tan overcoat already hanging there. She reached out to it gingerly, as if the coat might disappear as completely as the man had when she touched it. Phryne ran her fingertips down one sleeve, thinking of the large, bony hand that usually went along with it, and wishing she had found more reasons to slip her hand into Jack's. Or that she hadn't bothered with reasons at all.

"We took the coat from Jack's house, when we secured the scene," a voice said from behind her.

Phryne yanked her hand back like a child caught filching a biscuit. She turned, eyebrows climbing as she took in the scene in her parlor.

DI Taylor stood with his hands in his trouser pockets and his chin tilted up as he stared across the coffee table at Bert and Cec. Bert, arms crossed and hat tilted back at an insolent angle, was standing slightly in front of an uncomfortable, but no less defiant Cec. Dottie reigned over the tableau, wielding a teapot. Phryne's companion firmly believed that a cuppa could solve all but the most grievous of disagreements. Though she'd had resounding success so far, Phryne doubted if anything could reconcile the cabbies with the law. Their peace with Jack was tentative at best.

"Why would you bring Jack's coat here?" Phryne demanded of DI Taylor. It angered her, though she couldn't explain it, to have this piece of him invading her home when the rest of him was who-knows-where.

"I thought you might deduce something from it," he said, voice mild as milk. He didn't look away from his staring match with Bert.

"Not something you might have missed?" she asked, surprised and gratified in spite of herself.

"No," he agreed. With a final disdainful sniff for Bert, he met her eyes impassively. Apparently he didn't intend to elaborate.

"What did you get from the Culvers?" he asked. His eyes drifted down to her hands, and Phryne realized she was rubbing her fingertips on her skirt, as if to brush the feeling of Jack's coat off them. She stopped with a scowl. It had been a long time since someone had tried to manipulate Phryne, but she recognized the feeling and hated it. Who did this man think he was and what on earth was he trying to do?

Brushing past DI Taylor and into the parlor, she accepted the tea Dot had been trying to force on him and downed it like a shot, telling herself the tears pricking the back of her eyes were due only to the scalding she'd just given herself. In short, clipped sentences, Phryne related the details of her afternoon. Taylor's eyebrows shot up when she revealed that George Culver was their dead man, but he didn't interrupt.

"Hmph. We'd best be on our way then," DI Taylor said as she finished, tipping his hat ironically at the two ex-wharfies, and nodding to the ladies.

"What have you found out in your investigation?" Phryne asked, following on his heels as he stumped out of the room.

"The property records office is giving us the run around. We're going to stand over them until they give us answers instead," he said without slowing, "aren't we Collins?"

Hugh looked from Phryne to the inspector, clearly torn.

"He's not letting me go anywhere without him," Phryne explained to DI Taylor, with an even mix of affection and exasperation.

"And were you planning on going anywhere?" Taylor asked her, the faint twist of a smile on his lips.

"I have absolutely no plans to go anywhere," Phryne said, raising one hand as if swearing a solemn vow. Hugh rolled his eyes at her, but trotted off after the DI.

Bert unfolded his arms and relaxed slightly as the door shut behind the coppers.

"Didn't want 'im alone in yer house, Miss," Bert said. Phryne chose to ignore the irony of that statement in favor of the underlying sweetness. She was lucky in her friends.

"Thank you, Bert, Cec. I have a job for you," she paused as a thought occurred to her, "That is, if you aren't opposed to helping the police."

Bert's nose wrinkled as if he'd stepped in something unpleasant. Cec elbowed him in the ribs sharply.

"We're here to help you, Miss," he said, with a glare for the shorter cabbie.

"As always," she said, allowing her gratitude to suffuse her rich voice. Both men reddened. Cec was mauling his hat with sweaty hands.

"I need you talk to your contacts on the waterfront, find out as much as you can about this George Culver. But be careful, whatever he was getting up to got him killed."

"Righto," Bert said with a wolfish half-grin and a nod. He accepted the photo of George that Doris had given Phryne and turned to go, Cec trailing after him. The younger cabbie paused in the doorway to look back at Phryne. His forehead puckered in a web of wrinkles, and a frown tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"Out with it, Cec," she said with as much kindness as she could muster. She was beginning to feel as brittle as sun-crisped grass.

"We'll find him Miss," Cec said. He gave her a nod, mashed his hat on his head and left. He'd barely disappeared into the kitchen when there was a sharp knock on the door. Mr. Butler gave her a reassuring smile as he went to answer it, and Phryne wondered how many of her emotions had slipped out of her cracking control and onto her face. She pressed her palms to her hot cheeks, and they came away damp with tears. How long had she been crying?

"Miss Fisher is unavailable," Mr. Butler told the caller.

"I'm sure she is," a young man replied, "especially to me."

Phryne's eyelids fluttered as she recognized the voice.

"As I told you on the telephone, Mr. James, Miss Fisher is investigating an urgent case," Mr. Butler said, his tone still just this side of polite.

"Convenient," Lewis James said despondently. Phryne ground her teeth.

"It's alright, Mr. Butler," Phryne called. She schooled her features into calmness. Lewis couldn't help being very silly; he'd never had a reason to be any other way.

Lewis James handed his hat and jacket to Mr. Butler and glided into the parlor. He was just the sort of man Phryne usually delighted in: youthful, handsome and averse to serious attachments. Phryne had met him at Aunt Prudence's last soirée. Although her aunt had resigned herself to her niece's dalliances, she continued to surround her with eligible, socially acceptable young men. Phryne found them amusing, to varying degrees, but she could have told her aunt none of them had a hope of holding her attention. The longest relationship of her life had lasted a handful of very intense months, unless one counted her partnership with Jack.

Lewis faltered when he saw her face, but launched into an obviously well-rehearsed speech anyway.

"Phryne, my dearest, I have behaved like a churlish child," he said smoothly, taking Phryne's hand. She jerked it out of his grasp.

"Yes, you have," she replied curtly.

"Words cannot express the depths of my remorse," he continued in the same unctuous tone, spurned hand now pressed to his chest.

"I don't particularly care," Phryne replied with bald honesty.

"Uhm," he said. He shot a look at the door, then pressed on. In another situation, Phryne might have admired his courage. Today, it made her very glad her revolver was not on her person.

"I never meant to toy with your heart, my…uhm…dearest."

"Really Lewis, you've done no such thing. And I haven't got time for this game now," she said with steel in her voice.

Lewis was looking at her closely. "What's happened Phryne?" he asked in an entirely different manner, "have you been _crying_?"

Phryne felt the anger drain out of her, and she sank into an armchair, resting her forehead on one hand. She heard Lewis move around the room, the decanter clinking on its tray, and then he pressed a tumbler into her dangling hand. She swirled the amber liquid around the glass, but didn't drink.

"A colleague, Detective Inspector Robinson, has been abducted. I'm looking for him now, but…" I'm afraid of what I'll find, she realized.

"This would be…Jack?" the young man suggested tentatively.

Phryne wasn't prone to blushing, but she had the decency to look embarrassed. She knew young men had eggshell fragile pride, but she didn't always have the patience to cushion it through every upset. Their night together hadn't ended as either of them had intended, when they began it by exchanging seductions over dinner. But even though nothing particularly scandalous had happened between her and Lewis, the damage had been done to her relationship with Jack.

Phryne realized she hadn't answered the question.

"Yes," was all she could think to say. Lewis settled on the other armchair. A tiny divot had appeared on his smooth brow.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked finally. There was nothing but concern in his handsome face, no lust or conniving. Phryne smiled at him, glad for his innocence even if she couldn't share it.

"No, thank you. I want you to go out and find a pretty young lady to dance with," Phryne said. As opposed this tired old one, the statement implied. She had never thought of herself as old before. She added it to the list of things she didn't like.

"I'm sorry," Lewis said, "I couldn't even begin to understand." He gave her shoulder an awkward pat and left. Phryne didn't even hear him go.

For the first time since Hugh had shown up in a panic, Phryne was alone with her thoughts. The last slanting rays of a summer sunset lit the parlor, splashing over its soft greens and blues with an orange glow. The color reminded Phryne of the lining of Jack's coat. Her unfocused gaze sharpened onto the offending article of clothing, still hanging in the hallway as if he had stopped by for a whiskey at the end of case. She glanced at the mantle, half expecting the man himself to be leaning there, smoldering at her with those impossible eyes of his. For such an unflappably respectable man, he managed to make the dirtiest promises with his eyes.

Putting down her untouched drink, Phryne rose to investigate the coat. Jack's scent filled her nostrils as she rifled through his pockets. They were empty but for his police revolver, which was stashed in the right one. Ominous, Phryne thought. Jack hardly ever carried his revolver, and she would have guessed he didn't bring it home often.

With a final glare for the unhelpful coat, Phryne stalked into the kitchen to force at least part of a supper down, though she wasn't hungry in the least.

* * *

There had been many long nights in Phryne's life. The night after her sister's kidnapping and the night Murdoch Foyle had tried to take Jane both stood out as particularly dreadful, but she'd also spent nights staking out factories, sneaking aboard cargo vessels, and breaking into, well, nearly anything. But the night after she found out Jack had disappeared was the longest of her life.

For hours, she paced in the parlor, reviewing her notes and observations, trying to force herself to make a pattern out of far too little information. When Dottie once again tried to convince her mistress to go to bed, that she needed rest, Phryne gave in. As much as she hated it, there was nothing more she could do tonight. So Phryne lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling, body perfectly still as her mind continued to careen around like a wild animal beating itself against the bars of a too small cage. Phryne gave up sleep as a lost cause and threw herself out of bed.

Without bothering to put on a robe, Phryne tiptoed through the quiet house and down the stairs. She had intended to go to the kitchen, to fix herself something calming to drink, or perhaps something stronger, but once again she was arrested by Jack's coat hanging in the hallway.

With tentative hands, she pulled it off the hook, gathering the fabric to her chest and burying her nose in the collar. She inhaled deeply and exhaled a sob, her stomach roiling with frustration, anger, and fear. Jack was missing, but Phryne felt like the one who was lost.

It seemed like a childish, love-sick girl thing to do, but Phryne wrapped Jack's coat around herself. The silky lining slid across the bare skin of her shoulders and arms, as sensual as a lover's fingers. She didn't know how long she stood in the darkened hallway like that, hugging Jack's coat against her body, but eventually she went into the parlor and lay down, still wearing it. Finally, she fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming in indistinct fragments haunted by a pair of sparkling blue eyes.

* * *

When the telephone rang in the just lightening hours of the next morning, Phryne bolted out of the parlor to answer it.

"This is DI Taylor. We have the property records at last. I'm sending some men to each location; we'll be stretched thin. But George Culver owned a warehouse two streets away from where turned up dead. If I were a betting man, I'd put money on that one yielding the best results," the inspector told her.

"What's the address?" Phryne asked. The line crackled in the silence.

"You are to wait for us, Miss Fisher," DI Taylor ordered.

"The address?" she repeated, refusing to make promises she didn't intend to keep. For a moment she feared he wouldn't tell her, but he relented with a sigh.

Scarcely a half hour later, a hastily dressed but well armed Miss Fisher arrived at a waterfront warehouse. The rusting shell dominated an entire block. Phryne looked up and down the street, then listened. It was eerily quiet, for a part of the city that should be coming alive with the start of the work day.

 _Jack_. There had never been a chance of her waiting for DI Taylor. Jack would have known better than to ask it of her. Pulling out her revolver, she found a man door and swung it open, stepping into the dim interior without a pause.

It was very, very empty. Light forcing its way through filth covered windows high above lit a refuse littered floor, but there were none of the crates or shipping containers Phryne had expected to see. She hurried across the echoing space, setting discarded cans to clattering and packing rushes to rustling as she tripped her way through the trash and back to the line of offices on the far wall.

Her eyes were drawn to the door with the exterior latch. It was a lock for keeping someone in, not for keeping thieves out. She told her racing heart to steady as she swung the door open.

This room was empty too. A single, dangling yellow bulb lit the tiny cell. Suspicious stains splattered the walls and floor. Phryne forced herself to breathe, and almost gagged on the smell. Her watery knees were threatening to dump her in the filth, and her ears were full of rushing again. _Jack_.

Then Phryne frowned at the back wall. Clapping her handkerchief across her nose and mouth, she moved into the room and knelt to get a better look. Carved into the wood, near the floor, was a passage:

"as the star moves not but in his sphere,  
I could not, but by her."

Shakespeare. Leave it to Jack to carve Shakespeare onto the walls of his cell while being held captive by criminals. Phryne couldn't place the quote, though the meaning was clear enough: "just as a star cannot leave its orbit, I can't live without her."

It meant "I love you."

Phryne bit down hard on her lip as tears blurred her vision, trying with marginal success to keep her mind on the task at hand.

"What does that mean?"

Phryne sprang to her feet and spun, pistol at the ready, and found herself pointing her gun at DI Taylor. He only frowned at her, though the look she shot him would have brought a lesser man to his knees.

"It means Jack is alive," Phryne replied.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: George Culver, dead from alcohol poisoning, was redressed in rough clothes and left for dead in a gutter. Phryne has found where Jack was being held, in George Culver's now empty warehouse, but he's gone. He left her a Shakespeare quote because: Jack.

By the time Phryne had finished with the police at the warehouse it was mid-morning and Jack had been missing for almost four full days. DI Taylor insisted on driving her home, where he followed her into the house without an invitation. Cec, Bert, and Hugh were all sitting silently in the kitchen when she arrived. Bert shot DI Taylor a suspicious look as he joined them, but began to speak anyway.

"You were right, your dead man was up to his ar…eyes in trouble," Bert said.

"What sort of trouble?" Phryne asked.

"Hard to say exactly," Bert replied.

"He had another man doing his dirty work, Miss," Cec elaborated, "Goes by the name of Robert Smith."

Another Smith. The city really was full of them, legitimate or otherwise. Phryne was willing to guess Robert fell into the latter category.

"That's no help. I can't track down a false name," DI Taylor told the cabbies derisively.

"We'll keep on it, Miss," Cec said, before Bert could respond.

"Thank you," she said automatically, already working Robert Smith into her mental case file.

"Miss Phryne?" a tentative voice interrupted. Phryne shook herself and forced a smile for her ward, who was standing in the doorway to the dining room.

"Yes, Jane?"

"It's just that, though the inspector wasn't exactly kind to me, when I first met him…" Jane had been caught with thousands of pounds worth of a dead woman's jewels "…he wasn't cruel. And he did jump out onto the roof to save my mother…." Phryne remembered. She had gained an immediate and lasting appreciation for Jack's admirably straightforward way of opening locked doors. It couldn't compare with her lock picks for elegance, but he certainly had her on speed. Though Phryne suspected he was a slow burn, in all the ways that mattered.

"I want to help, I just don't know what I can do," Jane finished.

"Actually, there is something you can do, Jane," Phryne said, "I need to you to track down a quote for me, likely Shakespeare. Start with the tragedies." Though Jack had an admirably dry sense of humor, she pegged him for a tragedy man. And skimming through Shakespeare would keep Jane fully occupied, even if it turned out that Jack's apparent declaration of love was just that: a desperate man's last chance to say what had gone too long unsaid. Phryne looked at the ceiling and recited lewd poetry silently, until the tears filling her eyes had receded. DI Taylor wrote the quote onto a page in his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Jane.

"I've called on Inspector Robinson's family," Hugh was saying.

"Family?" Phryne asked. Obviously, Jack hadn't sprung fully formed from the ground, so he must have a family. It made Phryne a little uncomfortable to realize that she didn't know if he had siblings, or what his parents were like. She'd done her level best to insert herself into Jack's professional life, and somehow he had become a fixture of her personal life, or at least her parlor. But even though Jack's presence was as comfortable as her favorite arm-chair, she knew practically nothing about who he was when not investigating a case or downing her liquor.

"Miss? Your aunt is on the telephone for you. I've told her you're not available, but she insists it's an emergency," Mr. Butler interrupted gently. Phryne turned the frustrated scream bubbling up in her throat to a sigh, and went to answer the telephone.

"Phryne? My dear friend Mr. Roberts has died in a fire…"

"I'm sorry, but I haven't got the time," Phryne cut off her aunt.

"If you'll only just listen…"

"Inspector Robinson has been abducted, Aunt P," Phryne said. For a moment, her aunt was struck speechless, though Phryne wasn't in the mood to appreciate the all-too-rare occurrence.

"My dear girl, that's awful. I understand, what with you two working together so often…" Aunt Prudence trailed off. Truthfully, her aunt didn't understand much about Phryne's life, let alone her attachment to the detective inspector. Phryne had so far managed to avoid examining the issue too closely herself.

"I wouldn't have bothered you at all," she continued, "except, well the family has had so much to deal with recently. Poor Doris having just lost her husband and all…"

"Doris Culver?" Phryne pounced on the name.

"Of course. Her father, Mr. Roberts, died this morning. They're saying he was dead drunk, set the house on fire accidentally, but I knew the man, and he wasn't a drinker."

"The address, Aunt Prudence? I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *

Phryne strode past the various officials milling about the burned-out mansion as if she had every right to be barging into their crime scene. Jaws dropped and heads turned, but no one stopped her as she dodged around the blanket wrapped corpse and marched up to Mrs. Roberts, the newest widow in a case that had already collected one too many for Phryne's taste. Hugh scrambled along in her wake and posted himself at her elbow, much as he would have done had she been the missing detective inspector.

"Mrs. Roberts, I'm Phryne Fisher. My aunt, Prudence Stanley has asked me to look into your husband's death," Phryne had never hated ceremony more, but she had to observe certain formalities if she hoped to gain the woman's trust.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Fisher. Your aunt is a very dear friend. I'm Frances Roberts. I appreciate you coming so quickly," Mrs. Roberts said with icy calmness. Even wrapped in a rough wool blanket, her face and hair smudged with ash, she was clearly a well-mannered lady. Only the tear tracks through the grime on her cheeks gave away her grief. Phryne decided that although her daughter had inherited the lady's elegant bearing, she must have gotten her emotional nature from her father.

"Can you tell me anything at all about your husband's affairs? Anyone he might have offended?" Phryne was torn between asking pointed questions and upsetting Mrs. Roberts.

"There's very little to tell. Oh, Charles does…did the odd bit of investing, dabbled in the market, but he was a gentleman." Mrs. Roberts replied. Her voice was tinged with rueful affection.

Both women paused as constables lifted the stretcher bearing Mr. Robert's lifeless body and took it down to the waiting ambulance.

"But he hardly ever drank…" Mrs. Roberts said quietly, as if to just herself. Another apparently temperate man killed by an excess of alcohol. Coincidence? _In my experience, there's no such thing_. Too right Jack, Phryne agreed.

"If not business, perhaps the motive was personal?" Phryne asked.

"You don't think it was an accident?" Mrs. Roberts asked, almost hopefully.

"You clearly don't, Mrs. Roberts," Phryne replied.

"No," the woman agreed, "No I don't." Her face puckered as she thought.

"George Culver," Mrs. Roberts said suddenly, and Phryne twitched at the name, "He would have a reason to hate Charles. And...well, we could hardly approve such a match at first. But Doris loved him, and he proved he could provide a comfortable life for her. But it never sat right with Charles, so he began, well, snooping really, into George's background and family. It had become something of an obsession, actually."

"But George is dead…" Phryne said, trying to work out the connection.

"But I know he wasn't working alone. Charles was so excited after that detective inspector visited us. Robinson, was that his name? Well, he stopped by on Tuesday and had a long chat with my husband. Then, over dinner, Charles said to me 'We're going to get them now Francie. The Culvers are finished.' '' Mrs. Roberts stopped, and took what would have been a gulp in a lesser woman.

Jack! So, he'd been here too. Phryne cursed him roundly, for getting himself so deep into a dangerous case without getting help, for having the audacity to get abducted and for leaving behind so few clues, but mostly she cursed him for being so important to her. Then, for good measure, she cursed his good looks and his failure to deliver on any of his sultry ones.

The second floor of the manor collapsed with a sharp crack and a billowing cloud of ash, interrupting her thoughts. The fire brigade continued to comb the detritus, scraping through shards of glass and blackened furniture. Phryne had the uncomfortable realization that if she didn't find Jack, alive and unbroken, the wreckage of her heart would be a twin to this hollow ruin.

* * *

Jack hadn't seen Robbie or his mates since they moved him some hours ago. His lips cracked and bled as a feral grin spread across his face, but Jack couldn't help but exult in the memory.

Robbie had adopted a poker player's command over his features, but Red and Shorty didn't have his self control. They were sweating from more than just the heat when the three men slammed into Jack's little cell. He bit back a cry of pain as Red dragged him away from the wall and to his feet.

"Boss, I just don't think…" Shorty began, as he took Jack's other elbow. There was no chance of Jack doing a runner, given how alarmingly difficult verticality had become, so he guessed this was as much to keep him upright as anything.

"We're done talkin' about this; you know where to take 'im," Robbie said

"Boss?" Red asked. Jack looked at him in amazement. He hadn't said a word so far, more than willing to play the part of the mute muscle. Red jerked his chin at the wall, where Jack had scrawled his message to Phryne.

"As the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not, but by her," Robbie read aloud.

"What do that mean?" Shorty asked Jack, shaking him. The jostling set his wounds on fire, but Jack concentrated on not pulling at the rope that appeared to bind his hands. After he'd finished scratching his note on the wall, he'd wrestled with the rope until it was wrapped loosely around his wrists. He'd passed out more than once during the process, but it would be worth it if he could keep them from noticing.

Robbie began to chuckle.

"Love note for your sweetheart?" the crook asked, still laughing. Jack didn't answer. _Really_ , the Miss Fisher voice commented, _by now they ought to have gotten the idea that you aren't going to tell them anything_.

"I'll just burn it off," Shorty was fumbling through his pockets, searching for his lighter.

"Leave it," Robbie commanded. He strolled over to Jack, shoving his face into the inspector's. The naked cruelty in his eyes would have taken Jack's breath away, if he had any to spare.

"But boss…"

"I want that _woman_ to know he was sufferin'. I want 'er to know his last thoughts were of her and that she was too late," Robbie said. Jack fought the urge to retch as the man's fetid breath filled his nose. Retching would hurt his ribs (more), and besides, there was nothing in his stomach.

"How'd he even do that, all trussed up?" Shorty asked Robbie's retreating back, but his boss made no answer. Shorty shot a cursory glance and Jack's bonds, and Red shrugged. If the boss wasn't worried, he wasn't worried. Jack supposed he must not look like much of a threat, tightly bound or not. And maybe they were right.

Shorty and Red half pushed, half dragged Jack from the room and into a warehouse that was being hastily emptied by men who would not look at him. Although Jack appreciated that they had left his head uncovered, he knew it didn't bode well for him. He nearly lost consciousness when they shoved him straight from a loading bay and into the back of a car, but managed to keep his battered hands carefully clasped.

The rest of the journey was lost in a fog of pain. When Jack had come back to himself fully, he was here, in this significantly cooler and cleaner, sheeting-clad room. He could hear the sound of heavy machinery through the door, and occasionally, the clomp of boots as men walked passed it. Aside from a smell Jack couldn't identify and the threat of imminent death, it was comparatively pleasant. Jack lay with one cheek pressed to the floor and grinned like an idiot, because the game had changed.

Miss Fisher was looking for him. That was the only reason Jack could see for his hasty transfer and the dismantling of the operation at the warehouse. Robbie had practically said so himself, had left Jack's message for her to find, _deliberately_. And as long as she understood what it meant, beyond the obvious, she would find him. He let out a strangled chuckle and then forced himself to calm down.

Red and Shorty had started a heated conversation just outside the door.

"We're goin' to get the rope," Shorty said.

"Boss'll kill us," Red replied. It still surprised Jack that the man could talk.

"He's goin' to kill 'im anyway, no harm in speedin' things along." Shorty argued.

"Boss wants 'im alive," Red responded, a bit uncertainly.

"It ain't like he's tellin' us anything! But you can bet he'll sing quite a song, if the coppers catch up before we off 'im," Shorty exclaimed.

"I say we give it till the shifts change," Shorty continued after a pause, "and we make sure no one recognizes 'im."

When both men fell silent, the clattering of machinery suddenly sounded much more ominous.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: The body count is two, George Culver (a smuggler) and Charles Roberts (his father-in-law), both dead by alcohol poisoning. A Robert Smith, who seems to have been George's right hand man, abducted Jack. He was held at one of the man's warehouses, but was moved, with only a Shakespeare quote to indicate he'd been there. Jack's situation is getting more precarious. And "abattoir" means slaughterhouse…

Phryne's dining room had become a war room, and a chaotic one at that. Papers, photographs, and records littered the table, delivered by a constant stream of constables shuffling in from errands around the city. DI Taylor, who Phryne had managed to lose for her visit to the Roberts' destroyed home, seemed to have taken up residence in Phryne's, along with most of City South. Dot and Mr. Butler plied the company liberally with refreshments, answered the telephone, and directed foot traffic. Someone had tucked an official, particularly stern photograph of Jack into the window of the curio, and no one who walked by did so without a glance at it, which caused more than one crash.

Phryne buzzed around the table, keeping marginal control over herself by disorganizing reports and generally getting in everyone's way.

"Right then, what's the progress?" a no-nonsense voice from the hall cut through the chatter.

Phryne didn't know who had called Dr. Macmillan, but she intended to buy that person something ridiculously expensive when she found out. Ignoring the others in the room, Phryne hurled herself at her best friend.

"Mac! Jack's…" Phryne began.

"Yes, yes. Skip to what I don't know," Mac said, even as she returned Phryne's hug. Phryne felt more in control than she had since she and Jack had fought. Here was a rock she could set her back against while the storm raged, since her usual one had gone and gotten himself abducted. She held on to Mac's shoulders and took a deep breath before pulling her friend into the dining room.

Phryne had just settled at the head of the table when Mr. Butler announced her aunt. Mac rolled her eyes comically, and Phryne felt her lips twitch despite herself.

"Now before you object, I know the Roberts quite well and I want to help catch whoever killed poor Charles," her aunt said without preamble, "And your inspector is a good sort. Certainly a diligent man." Aunt Prudence thought quite highly of diligence.

DI Taylor helped her aunt into a chair, Bert and Cec pushed their way in from the kitchen, and the assembled group fell silent, turning their attention to the Phryne. Their faith in her made Phryne feel a bit dizzy. Almost as dizzy as knowing that Jack's life depended what they did, what she did. And the course of her life depended on finding him.

It's just the heat, she told herself. Between the glaring afternoon sun streaming in the windows and the bodies in the room, the temperature was rapidly climbing to boiling.

"Right then, here's what we know," Phryne began, "Jack was digging into rumors of a smuggling operation. They led him to a potential font of information, Mr. Roberts. He was a bit of an amateur detective himself, especially in the affairs of his son-in-law, George Culver." Phryne met Aunt Prudence's eyes.

"And it got him killed?" her aunt asked, looking more offended than horrified, which, to be fair, was her default expression.

"Not by George. He was already dead," DI Taylor picked up the narrative thread.

"And yet his car is somehow involved. The inspector left us his rego. Maybe he saw it at the scene?" Collins interjected thoughtfully, before reddening at his own boldness. Phryne forced herself to recall the scene again, but could only remember Jack. Jack looking at her without seeing her, Jack responding to her insults with barbs of his own... Jack yelling at her to watch out where she was going…

"Brilliant, Hugh! Yes, George's car was at the scene," Phryne confirmed.

"His wife?" DI Taylor asked. Phryne ground her teeth, berating herself again. She hadn't even looked at the driver, had barely seen the car at all as she careened around it, leaving, fleeing really, as fast as the Espano-Suiza would accelerate.

"I doubt it," Phryne still couldn't believe that Doris had any direct involvement in the deaths, or Jack's abduction.

"His associate then, this Robert Smith fella," Bert suggested. DI Taylor nodded in agreement before he remembered he didn't approve of the cabbies.

"George was killed by his own man? A man who wanted to erase the evidence of their wrong doing?" Phryne asked.

"By calling attention to himself with a murder?" Mac asked.

"Doesn't matter, Robert Smith doesn't exist, so I can't trace him. It's a dead end." DI Taylor declared, throwing a file down onto the table for emphasis.

The ticking of the grandfather clock filled the silence, the sound getting louder in Phryne's ears with each passing second. The room darkened suddenly as clouds blocked the sun.

"I tracked down the quote," Jane said quietly.

"What quote?" Mac demanded.

"Jack left it at the warehouse…" Phryne stalled. It felt like reading a love letter aloud to a room of near-strangers, but DI Taylor ran straight over her hesitation.

"As the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not, but by her," he recited with admirable flair.

Someone coughed. Hugh dropped his notebook, retrieved it, and then dropped his pencil.

"Hopelessly romantic, is he then? Never seemed like the sort to me," Mac said finally.

"Yes, well, he picked an especially inconvenient time to develop into a hopeless romantic. I need a fresh lead, not a flowery declaration of love," Phryne snapped.

Mac ignored her with a frown, as she often did when she didn't find Phryne's commentary helpful. "So, what's the source?" she asked.

"Hamlet, Act 4 Scene 7." Jane said proudly.

"Hamlet? Odd choice for a declaration of love, flowery or otherwise," Mac mused.

"What's that one about, again?" Hugh asked.

"Hamlet went on a killing spree because his uncle killed his father and then married his mother," DI Taylor explained. Hugh frowned as he tried to make sense of that terse synopsis. Phryne quirked an eyebrow at the inspector and he shrugged. It seemed he and Jack had more in common than their chosen profession, an affinity for Shakespeare at least. She turned her attention back to the niggling feeling that she was missing something, and something important.

"Not much love in Hamlet, but plenty of murder," Phryne said absently. That would be just like Jack too, to mean so much more than what he'd actually said. And it would be just like her to underestimate him. Again.

"Well, Doris and George don't have a son. They didn't have any children at all," Aunt Prudence volunteered over the grumble of distant thunder. No children, and yet Mrs. Roberts had told Phryne that her late husband was going to get _them_ , that the _Culvers_ were finished. At least two Culvers, and surely he hadn't meant his own daughter.

"What's the context of the passage?" Phryne asked. Something must have changed in her voice, because Mac looked at her sharply.

"Well, the king is talking about his wife," Jane replied uncertainly.

Hadn't the Culvers' Butler said the younger Mr. Culver was on the telephone for Doris?

"The king, the man who killed his older brother, for his crown and his wife," Phryne said.

DI Taylor recoiled a bit as Phryne rounded on him with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

"Robert Smith doesn't exist, but what about Robert Culver?" Phryne demanded, "Does George have a younger brother named Robert?"

"We had such a time of it, getting the records. We focused on George's property, not on births, deaths and marriages..." DI Taylor trailed off with a muttered curse.

Phryne was already in motion, headed to the front door and then the records office. Jack's coat, hanging in the hallway where she'd carefully replaced it that morning, caught her attention. She didn't slow as she yanked it off the hook and swung it around herself, shoving her arms into the entirely too long sleeves. The others might think her ridiculous, but Phryne had never paid all that much attention to what anyone thought of her.

Besides, the looming thunderclouds were poised to erupt, and Phryne intended to weather the storm.

* * *

Jack had no way to track the passage of time, but he had the uneasy feeling that he was running out of it. He could hear rain pounding on the steel sheeting of the roof and the occasional crack of thunder over the constant grind of machinery, so it must be late afternoon, maybe evening. How much longer until the shifts changed?

This room was cooler than his first cell, and Jack wished for his jacket or his long coat. Or both, and a fire to round them out. Shivering hurt, so he tried not to, but he began to lose control of the impulse. It seemed his wounds had gotten infected after all.

Jack's mind drifted, maybe he slept or fell unconscious, maybe he hallucinated, but then he was leaning on the mantle in Miss Fisher's salon, swathed in his three-piece suit and immersed in a room with sea-toned walls. The lady herself flowed over to him with a tumbler of whiskey and an arch smile. She stood just a little too close, and Jack found it oddly comforting. He decided he liked this hallucination, and didn't bother to shake himself out of it.

"I'm sorry," he told her, before she could disarm him with her any of her irrepressible flirtation.

"For what, Jack?" she asked, caressing his name with her voice.

He wasn't sure. 'Everything' was to general to be useful, and it fell firmly in the category of melodrama. Besides, he wasn't sorry for everything. He wasn't sorry for all the cases they had solved, or for so many hours spent in her salon that his fever dreams brought him here instead of to his own house. He wasn't even sorry for falling in love with her, though he couldn't imagine that ending well. In fact, he was only sorry he hadn't told her that she meant everything to him.

Jack realized then that Phryne needed to know that he loved her, to hear the actual words, and not just because he needed to tell her. She needed to know, because though countless men had worshipped and adored her, had even…even made love to her, Jack suspected that none of them had ever really loved _her_. She wore frivolity like armor, as a mask to hide her true self. Jack had worn sternness the same way, right up until she smashed headlong into his life and through his defenses. And he'd seen through hers, once he looked. He was just beginning to know her now, but Jack knew he loved her for her whole, beautiful, challenging self.

He tried to tell her, even just this image of Phryne smiling up at him, but as he struggled to find the words, his fevered mind dragged him away. He was on his stomach in the sand beneath a pier, sharing chips with her…she leaned against his chest as they read in front of the fire…they were riding the scenic railway…her eyes widened as he leaned in to kiss her…she reached out to take his hand as she cried over her sister's grave…they teased each other across a breakfast table…Jack drifted helplessly through memories of what they'd done together and dreams of what he wished they'd done.

He surfaced from the confusing morass of images, into a cold cell and an aching body as the door slammed open. Ah. Robbie again. The man could make an entrance.

"On your feet," Robert commanded. Jack didn't move. They meant to kill him, but he didn't plan to make it any easier for them.

"Move!" Robert shouted with a fine mist of spittle.

"Don't know if he can, boss," that was Red, shockingly observant, as ever.

Red dragged Jack up, and managed to keep him upright by wrapping both hands around Jack's upper arm. Shorty grabbed his other arm, and they manhandled him out of the room. Jack understood the pervasive smell then. They were standing on the floor of an abattoir, surrounded by sharp blades and pieces of animals. The floor was slick with blood and offal, and Jack fell to his knees more than once as they forced him across the room.

Hopefully Miss Fisher won't wear white to his crime scene, Jack thought idly. _Come on Jack, you know me better than that;_ he could practically hear her tart rebuttal.

Red and Shorty stopped in front of a gaping mechanical maw full of grinding teeth, and still supporting Jack by his arms, spun him around to face Robbie.

"I'm gonna kill you. When we're through, they'll never know you was a person. You'll be gone, gone as if you never was," Robbie spat out. Jack surprised the crook and himself, as one corner of his mouth tipped up in a smile, because this time Jack didn't believe Robbie. Miss Fisher and maybe even some of the lads had looked for him; they had tried to save him. He meant something to someone. It was enough.

Robbie pulled a revolver from his pocket, checked the cylinder and snapped it back in place with a twist of his wrist. A fine sheen of sweat covered his balding head, and his toothy grin had become a mad rictus.

"We hafta go boss, you heard what my cousin said. The cops got all the records," Shorty said urgently, his eyes darting around as if the constabulary might already be hiding behind the hanging sides of meat.

"And your cousin's gonna live just long enough to regret that," Robbie threatened. He raised his arm and pointed the gun at Jack.

"That woman, she threatened 'em with a gun!" Shorty defended his cousin. Jack smiled beatifically. Robbie stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of the revolver to his forehead with a snarl.

"Somethin' funny?" he asked.

The boom of someone pounding on a steel door echoed around the building, accompanied by the sound of booted feet running along the other side of the wall. Shorty dropped Jack's arm and began backing away, eyes wild. Jack wobbled on his feet, tipping into Red.

"Don't," Robbie cautioned Shorty, swinging his gun back and forth between the terrified man and Jack. Another crash broke the last of Shorty's nerve and he bolted. Jack began to topple over as Red let go of his other arm.

Robbie pulled the trigger.

* * *

**Author's note:** I've always thought that Phryne has never really been _loved_ , but I know I'm not the only one to have that thought. I mean no offense to those who said it before me, likely better than I ever could.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: The body count is two, George Culver (a smuggler) and Charles Roberts (his father-in-law), both dead by alcohol poisoning. Phryne suspects Robert 'Smith' might actually be Robert Culver, George's little brother. Jack's situation has gone from perilous to really perilous, as the cavalry is arriving and Robert has pulled a gun on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I've been pretty quiet. As I mentioned, I posted this all somewhere else already. I like the search options and content ratings better over here, though, and there are some great stories here I'm glad I've had the privilege to read. But I don't feel as connected to this community yet, so I haven't really said anything to y'all. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is both my favorite and the one I hate most. It is terrifyingly, intimately personal, though it is written about two characters I didn't even create. I've never written anything like it before or since. I'm very, very self conscious about this piece, as nervous as the first time I posted it. I wouldn't mind hearing what you think...that's a lie. I'd love to hear what you think, even if it is negative. Obviously, the next chapter will still go up tomorrow either way, but don't underestimate the power of connection to another human being to inspire a writer, or a person, to keep trying. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and enjoy!

Phryne tumbled through one of the abattoir's high windows with a crash. Even over the last of the rain drumming on the roof, the sharp crack of a gun firing was unmistakable. Her head swam in a sudden rush of vertigo. _Jack_.

Staggering to her feet, Phryne pushed out of a cluttered office and into a maze of metal and meat. Jack's coat billowed out behind her as she ran, ivory-handled revolver in hand. She slid around a corner and skidded to a stop. Her attention narrowed to a finely honed point, all of her concentration focused on the center of the room, where a fat man stood pointing a gun at a body lying crumpled on its side.

"Jack!" Phryne cried, half sob, half prayer.

He could not be dead. Phryne would not believe it. She simply couldn't imagine a world without Jack Robinson, couldn't imagine her parlor without him there drinking whiskey, or a City South where his name wasn't on the chief inspector's door. Phryne refused to even try.

For a moment that aged Phryne a lifetime, he lay as still as a corpse. Then, very slowly, Jack uncurled enough to meet her eyes. Anger warmed her veins when Phryne saw his face. A collection of bruises and cuts marred it, and one eye had swollen shut. But he was alive and didn't appear to be shot. He did seem surprised to see Phryne, which she filed away to be hurt by later.

Phryne pointed her revolver at the man with the gun. He had his brother's snub nosed profile, greasy hair, and tendency towards paunch. Another man, with a shock of red hair and a curiously blank expression, was edging back from Jack with his hands in the air. A nightmarish machine with rows of spinning teeth crunched away behind them, its noise not quite drowning out the echoing booms of DI Taylor's men pounding on a steel door.

"Miss Fisher! Been expectin' yeh," Robert Culver drawled, "drop yer gun." He didn't look away from Jack. The red-headed man ducked behind a slab of meat and ran. Both Phryne and Robert ignored him.

"No," Phryne said, a flat refusal. She wouldn't let Robert escape with Jack as a hostage; she didn't think he'd survive it. Besides, she would need the gun to shoot Robert, if he was cooperative enough to provide her with a reason to pull the trigger.

"Drop it, or I blow off the back of yer precious inspector's head, right here in front of yeh," Robert said as he took a menacing step towards Jack, his lips skinning back from his teeth in a savage snarl.

The agony of indecision swept through Phryne. Robert was desperate, a killer on the edge of losing everything, and she and Jack stood in his way. He would kill Jack, given the slightest excuse. She allowed her arm to drift down to her side and she dropped her revolver. It splashed in the rainwater that had streamed off Jack's coat to puddle at her feet. A minor setback, she thought stubbornly.

"Kick it away," Robert demanded.

With a scowl and an eye roll, Phryne obeyed, sending the gun spinning away with the toe of her boot. It bumped into a body she hadn't noticed before, a man dressed in laborer's clothes who sprawled, unmoving, in front of the far exit. The victim of the earlier gunshot, Phryne guessed.

"Half of the city police are surrounding the building," Phryne lied, stalling for time, "You'll never escape, Robert." As if on cue, the shouts of DI Taylor's men echoed through the walls. Apparently they'd given up forcing the main door and were searching for another entrance.

"We'll see. On yer feet, copper," Robert said. Jack's hands were bound behind him, but with an immense effort, he wrenched himself from his side and onto his knees, pain contorting his features. Phryne gasped as her stomach knotted in sympathy, nearly bringing her to her knees to join him. She tensed, preparing to throw herself across the space, knowing it was too far. But Phryne couldn't let Robert hurt Jack anymore; she didn't think she'd survive it.

Jack met her eyes and read her hopeless plan in them. His head twitched infinitesimally, a movement Phryne might once have missed. _Patience, Miss Fisher._

"Stand up!" Robert yelled, taking another step towards Jack and jabbing the gun into his forehead. Jack stared up the length of the barrel and met Robert's glare. He made no move to stand.

"Please, I'm begging you," Phryne said, allowing some of her near-crippling fear to creep into her voice. She hated to show weakness, but she had to distract Robert. He snorted in disbelief.

"You, yer a toff, a high society type. You beggin', for a copper? A no one?" Robert asked. His tone had changed. It sounded as if he really wanted an answer.

"Wouldn't you, if Doris were in danger?" Phryne asked, trusting Jack's message to her, trusting she'd understood what he meant. "If I held a gun to her head, what would you do to save her?"

Robert's hand began to shake. Phryne wasn't sure this was an improvement, given that it held a gun. His gaze remained locked with Jack's.

"You would do anything to protect her. George wasn't good enough for her. He was tainting her, dragging her down with him. He couldn't even give her what she wanted most, a family," Phryne guessed.

A sheen of tears had filled Robert's eyes. Finally, he looked at Phryne.

Jack wrenched his arms out of his bonds. Before Robert could react, Jack grabbed the man's wrist with both hands, pulling the crook towards him. Robert dropped the gun as he lurched forward, wind-milling his arms and tripping past Jack towards the grinding teeth of the machine behind him.

Jack watched impassively as Robert's life hung in the balance, but Phryne had never been good at the role of dispassionate observer. Reaching into the pocket of Jack's coat, she took out his revolver.

Robert fell to his hands and knees, face close enough to the whirring blades that they ruffled his sparse hair. With a squeal, he scrambled backwards. The two men looked at each other, and both reached for Robert's fallen weapon.

"Don't move," Phryne commanded, pointing Jack's revolver at Robert. He froze, still on his hands and knees.

"Jack," Phryne said, "the gun."

Jack fumbled for Robert's gun, but it slid in his hands and his grip was awkward. Something was wrong. Phryne shifted, so she could still see Robert and could get a clearer view of Jack, where he still sat on the floor.

Jack's hands. Phryne had lost track of how often she had thought of Jack's strong, slightly-too-lean hands, remembering his long fingers as they danced across her piano's keys and imagining them playing across her bare skin, but she barely recognized Jack's hands in the bloody ruins Robert had made of them.

Without fear to temper it, her barely contained rage bubbled to the surface, choking her, twisting her into an unfamiliar shape. How many men had she known, who had suffered, who had died, when they didn't deserve death? This man didn't deserve life, but he lived. It was a terrible cosmic error, but Phryne was in the position to correct it.

She cocked the gun, just for the pleasure of hearing it click.

* * *

Jack knew the look in Phryne's face. He'd seen it on the faces of men in the trenches and he'd worn it himself. She was angry beyond caring, raging at injustices she couldn't have prevented and on the brink of abandoning her iron-clad morals in favor of a bloodier, swifter retribution. Phryne would never forgive herself, never be the same person again, if she killed this unarmed and defenseless man. Jack knew.

"You are a monster," she said to Robbie with shards of ice in her voice.

"Phryne," Jack rasped, pleading. It was the first word he'd said in he-didn't-know how long, and he could only hope it meant as much to her as it did to him.

She didn't look away from Robbie, on his hands and knees in the sights of the revolver. It was overlarge and jarringly inelegant in her tiny hands.

"Don't argue with me Jack," Phryne said.

Jack couldn't. Even when his head didn't feel like it was packed with cotton, he seldom won an argument with Phryne without resorting to arresting her. And he would give anything to avoid that outcome today.

"He killed two people. And what he did to you…" words failed Phryne, as she glanced at the hands Jack was holding out to her entreatingly. Jack winced, and cradled his disfigured hands in his lap.

"I know," Jack said, because he did. If Robbie had abducted Phryne, had tortured Phryne, there would be no words capable of staying his hand, but Jack tried to find them anyway.

"I know, but his cruelty was his undoing, Phryne," Jack said. Don't let it be yours, he begged silently. She shook her head, in denial or not understanding, Jack wasn't sure which. Her beautiful face was the same, as familiar to Jack as the cover of his favorite book, but she had become a stranger to him.

"You got my message," she didn't answer, but it hadn't been a question, "Robbie left it there on purpose, to cause you pain. He'll hang, and I'll live, because of his cruelty," Jack said. If the infection doesn't kill me, Jack added to himself. Somehow, it didn't seem like a good idea to bring up that possibility.

The muzzle of the gun didn't waver. A bead of sweat rolled down Robbie's cheek, dangled from his chin, and joined the mess on the floor.

Jack thought, struggling to summon coherency from a mind clouded with pain and fever, searching for a way to reach her. But the only words he could think of didn't seem entirely relevant.

"If you shoot him, I'll either have to arrest you or go on the run with you," Jack said instead.

"You would arrest me," Phryne said without hesitating.

"Either one would destroy me," Jack said. He realized he was talking around what he wanted to say because he was afraid of driving her away. He was terrified that if he said those words, he would lose her. But if he didn't say them, would she lose herself? It wasn't really a choice.

"I love you, Phryne Fisher," Jack said. Her face convulsed as if he'd slapped her. That hurt him more than anything Robbie had done, but it was the first time her expression had changed since she had raised the revolver. Jack forced himself to continue.

"I know you, and I love you. And I know you are not going to kill this man," he finished, willing her to be the person he had fallen in love with, believing that she would be.

Phryne drew a deep breath, then another. Jack's lungs expanded in time with hers. She was winning the fight to contain the seething fire and brimstone of her anger, though he could still see a glimpse of the flames in her eyes.

"Move away from him," Phryne ordered Robbie. The crook crawled away from Jack. Without lowering the gun, she moved to stand between Jack and Robbie. The tension began to drain out of Jack, leaving behind only pain and exhaustion.

Jack didn't remember deciding to lie down, but as the world had gone sideways, he must have collapsed. He couldn't think of a compelling reason to right himself, so he didn't. He hurt, he hurt in ways he hadn't known he could feel pain. Curling up around his useless hands, Jack shut his eyes and forced it all to recede; pushing away the throbbing ache of his ribs, the burning of his maimed fingers, and the look on Phryne's face when he had told her loved her.

He could hear the sounds of a door crashing open, shouts, and people running, but they were muffled, as if they came from a great distance. Jack knew he was slipping away, and he welcomed the oncoming oblivion.

Phryne was talking to him, touching his face, her fingers gentle on his bruised cheeks, one thumb brushing across the corner of his mouth. Her kindness caused him a different kind of pain, and he tried unsuccessfully to pull away from her.

"Jack," Phryne said, insistently, "Jack!"

Because he couldn't think of any other way to stop her pestering him, Jack opened his eyes and gave Phryne an almost angry look. If she was going to withdraw from him, leave him, couldn't she just get on with it?

"You didn't really think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?" she asked. He wondered if he'd spoken aloud.

Phryne was crying, but didn't seem to know it. She smiled at him, a tenderer, sweeter smile than the sultry expression Jack knew. A warm fizziness was growing in Jack's stomach, a feeling that wasn't as foreign to him as it once had been, but still one he had trouble naming. Of their own accord, his fingers unfolded creakily. Phryne immediately slipped one hand into his, carefully wrapping her fingers around his palm.

"You know me better than that, Jack" she said, "I'm not going anywhere."

One corner of Jack's mouth tipped up in an answering smile and Phryne ran her thumb across it again. Phryne generally got what she wanted, whether he intended to give it or not, but if she had decided she was going to be a part of his life, he would let her, happily.

"Don't you die on me, detective inspector Jack Robinson," she ordered.

"I wouldn't dare, Miss Fisher," he replied. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand and drifted into unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Phryne arrived in time to prevent Jack from getting stuffed in a meat grinder, then lost her temper and nearly killed Robert Culver. Most of us wouldn't have minded, but Jack didn't want Phryne to pull the trigger, and jolted her out of her rage by telling her he loved her. This had the intended effect, and though her reaction didn't initially encourage much hope, she told him she wasn't going anywhere. He kissed the back of her hand and fell unconscious, and we all went "awww".

Phryne paced the hospital hallway, buzzing with worry and residual anger. Mac had pushed her out of Jack's room as soon as they arrived, ordering Phryne to clean up and calm down. Phryne had resentfully obeyed at least the first mandate.

"You know I can handle myself around the injured, Mac…" she'd argued.

"This is different, Phryne, trust me," Mac had said as she shut the door in Phryne's face.

Phryne did another pass. Hugh made a valiant effort to tuck his feet even further under his chair. Phryne considered tripping over them just to have someone to scowl at, but restrained herself. The young constable looked as sick with concern as Phryne felt. Dot gave Hugh's arm a squeeze and the two sweethearts exchanged a look filled with mutual reassurance.

Mac rejoined them in the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel as she pulled the door shut behind her.

"Jack?" Phryne asked. It was hardly a coherent inquiry, but it was the only word Phryne could come up with at the moment. Her friend was staring down at the towel, scrubbing her already clean hands in an absentminded way that indicated she had forgotten what she was doing.

"Mac," Phryne said, with a note of warning in her voice.

"Well Phryne, he's in bad shape. You don't need me to tell you that," Mac finally said, meeting her eyes.

"How bad?" Phryne asked in clipped tones.

"He has a litany of injuries: cuts, bruises, scrapes, bruised ribs and some broken ones…"

"His hands?"

"They left him with a few nails," Mac said, with disgust in her voice, "You let the men who did this live?"

"Jack insisted," Phryne said. While she suspected she'd be glad for his intervention later, right now her mind was presenting her with a variety of creative and painful ways she could have killed Robert Culver.

"He would," Mac said with affectionate disapproval. She looked down again.

"What aren't you telling me Mac?" Phryne asked, sensing and dreading her friend's reticence.

"He's dehydrated, he hasn't had anything to eat, his wounds were filthy and he's feverish with infection," Mac said, "In all honesty, Phryne, I'm not sure…"

Phryne shook her head in a savage denial, not even letting Mac finish.

"He promised," Phryne said, her voice pitched higher as she spoke through threatening tears. She knew it was foolish, but it was all she had.

"Well, he is the sort who keeps his promises," Mac said, pushing open the door and escorting Phryne into Jack's room.

Jack seemed diminished somehow, lying on the bed. Incongruently, Phryne thought of his office, unchanged and yet subtly more empty. Phryne went to his side and stood there awkwardly. She wanted to hold his hand, to touch him somehow, but his hands were bandaged and she was afraid to cause him pain, or at least, any more pain than she'd already caused. Very lightly, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. It radiated heat. Jack stirred at her touch, and she pulled away quickly.

Phryne's head jerked up as two strangers joined her and Mac at Jack's bedside. She knew them instantly, though they'd never met. The man had Jack's high cheekbones, downturned lips and strong chin while the woman had his sparkling eyes. They had to be Jack's parents.

"And you must be Phryne Fisher," the woman said, enveloping her in a hug. Phryne hugged her back, thankfully tossing aside decorum.

"You've heard of me?" Phryne asked. Lord, what would Jack have told his parents? She shuddered to think.

"Hasn't most of Melbourne?" Jack's mother replied, with a very familiar arch of one eyebrow. Jack had gotten his sense dry sense of humor from his mother, Phryne surmised.

"Probably," Mac said. Phryne shot her friend a dirty look.

"I'm Ida, and this is my husband Henry," Ida Robinson said. She had the slightest hint of an accent, though Phryne couldn't immediately place it. They were both well, if sensibly, dressed.

"Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, it's a pleasure to meet you," Phryne's eyes went back to Jack, and she watched him take another breath before she continued, "I wish the circumstances..."

"We all do," Mr. Robinson cut her off. His face had none of the warmth of his wife's, and Phryne could sense disapproval radiating off him in waves.

"Henry," Ida said gently, "Why don't you go to Jack's house and collect some of his things, pyjamas and so on?"

Henry continued to stare down at his son for a moment, and then excused himself with a silent tip of his hat.

"He'll be better for something to do," Mrs. Robinson commented, "While we ladies decide how we're going to help our Jack. And call me Ida, please."

Phryne decided she adored Ida Robinson.

"He's feverish," Mac explained to Ida, "We've gotten some fluids in him, but he's weak and restless. I'm being generous with the painkillers, but he's not comfortable."

"Would you be?" Phryne asked. Hospital accommodations may be sterile, but they didn't meet her standards for comfort. The bed was barely wide enough for Jack's broad shoulders and the sheets were a threadbare cotton affair Phryne wouldn't have used for rags.

"We can't take him to his house," Ida said with a shudder. Phryne heartily agreed. She doubted if Jack was at ease there even when he was well. He seemed most contented in Phryne's parlor, really. Phryne thought of her house, with her books, and the gramophone, and Mr. Butler's cooking, and Dot's gentle kindness. Phryne wanted to share them with Jack. She refused to admit this might be her last chance.

"I want to take him home," Phryne said without thinking. She was glad Mr. Robinson had left, given the way Ida and Mac stared at her.

Jack twitched in his sleep, making a horrible little whimpering sound in the back of his throat, and Phryne's stomach twisted. Because she had to touch him, she reached out and cupped his cheek in one hand. She ran her thumb over the corner of his mouth, the right one, which she'd only ever seen tilted up once or twice in the years she'd known him. Jack quieted and some of the tension rippling through Phryne dissolved as well.

"Alright," Ida said. Phryne had forgotten what they were talking about. She frowned.

"You can take him home," Ida's brow was still wrinkled with worry, but a mischievous twinkle had crept into her eyes.

* * *

Phryne managed to keep herself very busy for a very long time. Jack's transfer was a complex undertaking involving all of her staff, both his parents and several unwillingly recruited nurses. Mr. Robinson (he hadn't offered Phryne the use of his first name) disapproved of moving Jack to her house, and was flat-out against putting him in her bed, but Ida took him aside for a few quiet words and convinced him not to object quite so loudly. Phryne made a note to inquire how, since she found herself persuading an uncooperative Robinson almost daily. Jack, liberally medicated by Mac, was blissfully unaware of all the fuss. Phryne thought it likely he'd be appalled at the small army she'd mobilized on his behalf, but that didn't stop her from doing it.

Smoothing the finely woven covers of her wide bed around him, Phryne nodded once in satisfaction. It certainly wasn't how she had intended Jack Robinson to end up in her bed, but he looked much more like himself here than lying in a hospital cot.

"Now what do we do? What do I do?" Phryne asked Mac.

"We wait," her friend replied as she checked his pulse.

"I've never been much good at that," Phryne said. Since Jack had disappeared, Phryne had always had something to do: investigate Jack's house, intimidate record clerks, find Jack, rescue Jack. But wait for Jack to live or die, watch passively as the man she...the man who loved her, struggled for each breath, Phryne wasn't sure she could do that.

With a kiss for Jack's uncomfortably hot brow, Phryne bustled off to supervise the household.

Phryne passed the rest of the day in a flurry of activity. She settled Jack's parents in a guest room, arranged for a nursing service, called the hospital to make excuses for Mac, talked with Mr. Butler about meals for Jack, thanked Bert and Cec for carefully transferring an enemy of the people to her home, gave her statement to DI Taylor and called the station to update the men on Jack's status. In between errands, she popped into her room to check on Jack, but he was seldom even semi-conscious. Phryne hated to admit it, but she was glad that he mostly slept, so she could leave him in the steadier hands of his mother and Dot while she focused on getting him the best possible care.

It was approaching midnight when Mac cornered her in the kitchen.

"What exactly do you think you are doing?" her best friend asked her.

"I should think it would be obvious," Phryne replied, affronted, "I'm seeing to it that Jack gets everything he could possibly need to recover."

"For heaven's sake Phryne. He doesn't need half a dozen nurses, or broth imported from France, or silk sheets, or…" Mac ran out of expensive amenities to list.

"Well, he'll have them. That's why we moved him here," Phryne argued.

"We, his mother and I, didn't allow you to move a badly injured man across the city and up a flight of stairs for better sheets. We moved him here for you, Phryne Fisher, because anyone with eyes can see he takes comfort from you. You're a right dolt if you can't see it."

The tears that had been threatening to overtake her all day welled up in Phryne's eyes. She had told Jack she wasn't going anywhere and she knew that she was failing him in this too, as she had failed to get to him before so much of his strength had been burned up. But Phryne felt like a wild animal in cage, and it scared her. It wasn't Jack's fault, or rather, it was entirely Jack's fault though he'd never even thought to trap her. It was a feeling she'd spent most of her life avoiding, and she hadn't entirely accepted its sudden, uninvited arrival. Few things really terrified her, but discovering that she had come to depend on Jack chilled her to the bone.

Mac could see the fear in her eyes, and understood. She put both hands on Phryne's shoulders and gave her a little shake.

"You never let anything but your own heart decide how you live your life, Phryne. Don't let fear pick your course for you now," Mac said.

Phryne knew she was right. She squeezed Mac's elbows, drawing strength from her friend, and climbed the stairs to her room.

Ida Robinson was sitting in a chair next the bed, knitting. The clack of her needles and Jack's shallow breathing were the only sounds. She smiled in welcome and relief when she saw Phryne at the door, and Phryne bit her lip remorsefully. Tip toeing into the room, she glanced at the other chair and then tentatively settled on the edge of the bed. Phryne considered the man laying it.

Phryne forced herself to acknowledge that Jack's condition had worsened. He'd always been lean, but fever and malnourishment had pushed him towards skeletal. His wrists seemed even knobbier than usual, his skin drawn tightly over the bones, where they lay limply on top of the covers.

"Thank you, for all you've done for my son," Ida said softly. Phryne winced and changed the subject.

"How is Mr. Robinson?" Phryne asked. The man had spent much of the day sitting silently in the parlor, watching the activity in the household with unseeing eyes.

"Parents aren't supposed to outlive their children," Ida said, "And we have buried too many of ours."

Phryne nodded, but didn't inquire further. The war, childbirth, influenza…the ways one could lose a child were numerous.

"How long have you been married?" she asked instead.

"Almost four decades now." A smile crinkled up the wrinkles around Ida's eyes.

"Jack would have liked to have a marriage like that," Phryne said. It made her sad, that he had lived so much of his life without a partner.

"I would prefer him to be happy," Ida said firmly. Phryne blinked at the woman and Ida smiled at her. It had sounded like permission, or acceptance.

"If you will sit with him, I think I'll find Henry and our bed," Ida said, standing and pressing her hands to the small of her back. She leaned in to kiss Jack's forehead, squeezed Phryne's shoulder, and left.

Phryne kicked off her shoes and crossed her legs on the bed, so one knee just touched Jack's chest. After glancing around guiltily, Phryne ran her fingers through his chestnut hair, brushing a stray curl back from his forehead. Phryne realized she had begun to cry again as the room blurred.

"You love me, and it scares me," she told the sleeping man, choking on the words. She hadn't been wholly surprised, Jack had as much as said he loved her, standing in her hallway with tears in his eyes after the car race case. But it still scared Phryne.

"And that's not even the worst part," Phryne said, wiping her cheeks with her hands.

What was truly terrifying, Phryne finally forced herself to acknowledge, was that she loved Jack back. Loved him in such a fundamental way, it had become part of who she was without her noticing.

In Phryne's experience, the people who could hurt you most were the ones you loved. They could die, leaving behind unfillable holes in your heart. And worse, they had power over you; they could change you. Because when you loved someone, you believed them just a little when they told you were weak, or ugly, or stupid. If they told you often enough, you became it. It was a hard-won lesson, but not a course she intended to repeat.

Jack began to fidget in his sleep, and his breathing grew more shallow and uneven. His whole body tensed in the throes of a nightmare, and he made that terrible whimper again. Unable to hold his bandaged hands, Phryne pressed her hands to his cheeks, willing him to calm. Slowly, he did.

Without moving her hands, Phryne shut her eyes, hating to see Jack so helpless. Unbidden, the image of Jack holding his ruined hands out entreatingly, begging her not to kill the man who'd maimed him, rose in her mind.

"Why didn't you let me kill him?" Phryne asked Jack angrily, opening her eyes to glare through her tears at the man she loved.

_"I know you, and I love you. And I know you are not going to kill this man."_

Jack had said he'd never ask her to change. Phryne hadn't really believed him then, it ran so contrary to her experience. But she had to believe him now; he'd saved her from changing herself. She would have destroyed herself on his behalf, but Jack had stopped her, at an immeasurable risk to his own heart.

"I love you, Jack Robinson," Phryne finally told him, wishing for the first time that he was awake to hear her. She felt calm and strangely light, but thoroughly exhausted.

Carefully, Phryne stretched out beside Jack. Checking his shoulder for bruises and finding none, Phryne wrapped her arms around Jack's left arm, and pillowed her cheek on his shoulder.

"I love you," Phryne repeated, listening to his heartbeat beneath her ear, "I haven't the slightest idea what we're going to do about it, but I love you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Phryne has Jack at a disadvantage, as per usual. He put his heart on the line, keeping her from killing a defenseless (but really awful) man by telling her he loved her, and then slid into a long battle with fever. Phryne finally had to admit to herself that she loved him, but she hasn't the slightest idea what she's going to do about it…

Jack Robinson was comfortable; really, really comfortable. He yawned without opening his eyes and nestled deeper into the deliciously soft bed, rubbing his cheek against Phryne's silky hair.

Phryne's hair?

Cautiously, Jack cracked open one eye. Phryne was asleep with her head pillowed on his left shoulder, both arms wrapped around his waist and one leg thrown possessively over his thighs. Jack's left arm was wrapped loosely around her.

Jack shut his eyes. He was hallucinating, or dreaming; he'd been doing quite a bit of both lately. His recent memories were a confused mix of faces and places: Phryne, Mac, Dot, and his mother, a hospital and Phryne's bedroom. And Lord knows, he'd dreamt of Phryne's perfume scented bed, her lithe form pressed up against him, often enough before. Jack frowned. His mother had never appeared in _those_ dreams.

When Jack opened his eyes again, Phryne was still there, her body tangled up with his. Not dreaming then, he concluded.

Phryne had said she wasn't going anywhere, and she had apparently adopted an uncharacteristically literal interpretation of her promise. Jack wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. His well-worn cotton pyjamas seemed out of place against Phryne's silky violet sheets, as out of place as Jack felt. How had he even gotten into his pyjamas? Jack decided not to think about it. Thankfully he was mostly under the covers and she was on top of them, but they seemed like a pitifully insubstantial barrier at present.

Phryne snuggled closer in her sleep, digging her chin into Jack's shoulder. He was a little less comfortable now, all things considered.

Phryne was fast asleep, her breathing deep and even. Jack didn't want to wake her, but he decided he'd better extricate himself from, well, as much as possible, while he still could. He carefully slid himself sideways out of her embrace, biting his lip as his ribs complained at the movement, and rolled himself up on the edge of the bed. Jack paused for a moment, taking an inventory of his newly awakened injuries. He couldn't see his hands, wrapped to the wrist in a thick layer of bandages, but he could guess they were in bad shape. The pain in his fingertips pulsed in time to his heartbeat.

Jack stared down at Phryne and a smile tinged with sadness crept onto his face. So much had happened over the last…however long, and he had no idea where he and Phryne stood. As much as he wanted to wake up next to her every day for the rest of his life, preferably having first _chosen_ to fall asleep there, this might be the only time he saw her so relaxed and vulnerable. Phryne might decide to act as if nothing had changed, pick up their partnership as if there'd never been a break. She'd done it before.

A wrinkle appeared in Phryne's brow and her left hand began to wander the bed, searching. She seemed about to wake, and that would be the end of Jack's great escape. In a stroke of pure inspiration, Jack hurriedly pushed a pillow into her arms. Phryne wrapped herself around it with a sigh and settled back into sleep.

Letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, Jack looked around for a robe. His battered suitcase was propped open in one of Phryne's elegant chairs, full of his own clothes. Jack pushed himself to his feet slowly, and was immeasurably pleased when he managed to keep them under him. He gave up trying to tie the robe with his bandaged hands after only a few attempts, wrestled the door open and slipped out into the hall.

Jack had made it to the landing halfway down the stairs and was leaning on the wall, reconsidering his decision to undertake this outing, when Mac rounded the corner from the dining room.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?!" she exclaimed.

"Shh!" Jack shot a look up the stairs, but didn't hear any movement.

"Phryne's asleep? I never thought I'd say it, but she's being the sensible one. Back to bed!" Mac stabbed her finger in the direction of the bedroom for emphasis.

"I'd rather not, thank you," Jack said stubbornly. As Mac didn't seem inclined to let him pass and standing required more effort than Jack had previously realized, he sat down on the top step of the landing.

"Why not?" Mac demanded. Alerted by the commotion, Dot and Collins joined them from the dining room.

"There's just so much…Phryne…up there," Jack said, knowing it didn't make a bit of sense. Dot and Collins exchanged a worried glance.

"You've been very sick, Inspector," Dot said slowly, as if to a particularly dense child. Jack huffed out his breath in a sigh. Maybe Robbie had cracked his head after all.

"Actually," Mac said contemplatively, "I completely understand. She's difficult to cope with even when one hasn't spent the last week being starved, beaten and ill."

Jack cringed, shaking his head to clear it of the images Mac had invoked. She took a few steps up the stairs and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead with a frown.

"She's not even awake," Jack admitted sheepishly, choosing to focus on the present.

A thump, rushed footsteps, and the bedroom door being thrown open heralded Phryne's return to consciousness. She appeared at the top of the stairs, pillow still clutched to her chest.

"Jack!" Phryne said with clear relief. Jack wondered how far she thought he could possibly have gone.

Phryne pranced down the stairs and plopped herself down next to him. Jack scrunched against the wall to give her room on the narrow stair. He was again struck by the contrast between them as her silk clad shoulder brushed against his robe. He should have replaced it a decade or so ago, but as no one generally saw it, he hadn't seen much point in making the effort.

"While I'll admit a pillow does have significantly fewer uncomfortable planes and angles, it is not an adequate Jack substitute," Phryne told him tartly, giving the offending item a shake before tossing it into the parlor carelessly. Both Dot's and Hugh's eyes widened, and they promptly disappeared from the hallway.

Jack studied the ceiling as he thought, decided he didn't have an adequate response and said nothing. A flutter of movement in the periphery of his vision made him jerk back, before he realized it was only Phryne reaching out to feel his forehead. Although he hugged his aching chest with one arm, his wince was mostly for the hurt on Phryne's face.

"I'm sorry…" Jack began.

Phryne cut him off with a violent head shake and opened her mouth to say something, but a knock on the door interrupted them. Mr. Butler admitted DI Will Taylor with a friendly smile.

"Jack!" Will said, striding up to the stairs. His right hand jumped out of his pocket, as if to shake Jack's, but he turned the gesture into a tip of his hat at the last minute.

"Will," Jack said, surprised.

"Aw, come on now Jack," Will said, "You didn't really think we'd leave you to them, did you? I'd hate to have you die before I could pay you back. I warn you, I consider us square now."

Jack shook his head at Will, "I'll make a special note not to get abducted in the future, then," he said blandly.

"Good, you do that," Will said with a decisive nod.

"What's all this about?" Phryne asked, curiosity making her eyes sparkle.

Jack shrugged dismissively, but Will was fired up now.

"Jack an' me met during the war," he said, "When we got back, well, things had changed for me. I needed a fresh start, and Jack got me on at the station."

"You didn't get anything you didn't deserve," Jack argued.

"Yeah yeah, you're too darn mean to have had anything to do with it," Will said.

Jack gave Will his sternest scowl, but it was ineffective as ever. Will had proven himself nearly immune to his melancholy years ago, for which Jack was secretly very grateful. Will's friendship was the only thing Jack was glad to have brought back from the war.

"Anyway, I've just come to get your lady detective's signature on her statement," Will said, looking back and forth between Jack and Phryne.

Jack watched Phryne out of the corner of his eyes, waiting for her to tell Will just who belonged to whom, but she only smiled warmly at the other DI. Strange, Jack thought. Maybe he was hallucinating after all.

"I'm starving," Phryne declared, "Perhaps you'd like to join us for brunch, DI Taylor?"

"It would be my pleasure!" Will said.

Everyone looked to Mac for approval, and she rolled her eyes.

"Fever's broken," she said grudgingly, "Might as well get a meal in him while he's upright."

Jack did his best not to twitch as Phryne bounced to her feet, skipped down a few stairs, and offered her hands to him. He had no idea what she meant to do with the gauze wrapped paddles at the end of his arms, but he held them out to her anyway. Jack didn't know where they were headed, but he was well beyond the point of no return with Phryne Fisher.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Phryne rescued Jack from a smuggler turned murderer, and nearly became a murderer herself when she saw how hurt Jack was. Jack told her he loved her, which was distracting enough to keep her from killing anyone. Jack was quite sick for some time and Phryne finally had to accept she loved him. Jack woke up in a somewhat confusing situation and did a runner. He didn't even make it to the bottom of the stairs…
> 
> kinder - children in German

Between the sidelong way he had been watching her and his flinch at her touch, Phryne had half expected Jack to ignore her outstretched hands, but he didn't hesitate to offer his in return. Phryne wrapped her fingers around his wrists, leaned back and levered him to his feet. She kept a hold of his arms, steadying his wobble down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, Phryne found she didn't want to let go of him at all. She did, however, want him to stop looking at her like she was a loaded gun pointed at his heart.

Mac and Will had disappeared, leaving Phryne and Jack standing toe to toe in the hall, chests so close Phryne couldn't have slid a case file between them. Phryne searched Jack's face, eyes catching on healing cuts and fading bruises, before meeting his eyes. The look they exchanged was more intimate than an embrace and more soul-baring than a conversation, but Jack didn't shy away. He raised one eyebrow at her.

"Yes, Inspector?" Phryne prompted, as lightly and flirtatiously as she could.

Jack's only reply was a slight headshake. He'd already said everything he meant to say. It remained to her to do the same. But what if Phryne could not give him what he expected, what he deserved?

Jack coerced his lips into a smile that didn't touch the uncertainty in his eyes.

"Why on earth were you wearing my coat? What, were all of yours at the laundry?" he asked, trying to ease the tension between them. It was Phryne's turn to shake her head, in disbelief that a man so good had not only survived the evil that had been done to him, _he loved her_.

"I love you, Jack Robinson," Phryne said, answering the question he was asking with his eyes. Jack blinked slowly. Freed from their locked gaze, Phryne focused on the top button of his pyjamas.

"I don't intend to settle down, or to obey the speed limit, or, well, any of society's other ridiculous expectations, but I love you," she told his chest in a rush.

"After everything that's happened, what with you saving me the trouble of a murder charge, it seems like you ought to know it. That I love you, that is." Phryne grimaced at her own incoherence.

"I think perhaps you should say something at some point," she said a little impatiently.

"You haven't really given me a chance," he pointed out. The lightness in his tone made Phryne look back up. His eyes were sparkling.

Phryne shut her mouth very tightly, and pointed to her lips to emphasize her compliant silence. Jack surprised her by leaning down to kiss them.

Phryne ran her hands up his arms and across his shoulders, reveling in the feel of his robe as if it were the finest silk, because it covered Jack, savoring the hardness of muscle beneath her hands like never before, because this was Jack she held. She buried the fingers of one hand in his hair, wrapping the other arm around his broad shoulders. Jack's lips parted, and his tongue found hers in a kiss as tender as Jack himself. Phryne could feel the rough ridges of healing cuts on his lips and her arms tightened around him possessively. Jack made a sound into her mouth, a tiny groan of mingled pain and pleasure. Phryne broke away immediately, but Jack held her against his chest.

"Am I hurting you?" Phryne asked, dizzy at the very thought.

"I honestly can't tell," Jack said, tucking her shoulder under his chin. Phryne looped her arms around his waist loosely, resting her cheek against his shoulder and shutting her burning eyes. She understood. Love was the most exquisitely beautiful and terrible feeling, an incomparable mix of pleasure and pain. Their love would be much more of the former than the latter, she silently promised herself and the man she loved.

"Good morning, _kinder_ ," a matronly voice jolted Phryne out of her daze.

"Mother!" Jack gasped. His arms stiffened around Phryne, but he didn't move. Before Phryne could decide if they should disentangle themselves, Ida swept them both into a careful hug.

Letting them go, Ida pressed one hand to Jack's cheek and the other to Phryne's.

"It's good to see you well again," Ida said to her son, her impish half grin at odds with the sheen of tears in her eyes. Phryne suspected she was talking about more than Jack's health.

"And your father is just behind me," she added helpfully as she headed towards the dining room. Jack cleared his throat uncomfortably. Phryne grinned at him wickedly, but released him anyway.

"Later," she promised him, pressing a chaste kiss to that ever-down-turned corner of his mouth. "There will be time for everything later, love."

Phryne couldn't help laughing at the dreamy look on Jack's face, giddy with the newness of it. She was delighted to discover the pleasure she took in his happiness was matched only by her joy in being the one who caused it.

* * *

Jack didn't resist as Phryne towed him into the dining room by his elbow. He wouldn't have resisted if she had towed him into traffic. Phryne loved him! Jack's mind was more muddled by the joy of that revelation than it had been by fever.

Phryne pushed Jack into the chair at the head of the table just as his father joined them. Jack moved to get up, but his father stopped him. He would have shaken Jack's hand, but had to settle for squeezing his shoulder tightly, pride and relief in his eyes. He didn't have any words for Jack, but Jack didn't need any. Theirs was an old and comfortable silence.

Mr. Butler had prepared Jack a delicious broth, neatly sidestepping the entire problem of cutlery by serving it in a mug. Jack got about half of it down before his stomach felt full to bursting. Gingerly settling back in his chair, Jack enjoyed the free-flowing conversation between the people around the table, his family, letting the comfort of their companionship ease his deeper pains. Phryne kept catching his eye, reminding Jack of the renewed and infinitely deeper bond between them.

Will, despite Jack's half-hearted efforts to prevent him, related some of Jack's infamous arrests, or failures to arrest, with the air of someone who'd finally discovered a willing audience. His mother expounding on her childhood in South Africa, telling animated stories about the life her family had lived there before the Boer War had forced them to flee. Phryne hung on every word, laughed in all the right places and understood all the unspoken subtexts. Here's trouble, Jack thought with contented resignation. He'd always suspected Phryne and his mother would get on well.

By some unspoken agreement, no one mentioned the case until the plates were cleared and a pile of tantalizing biscuits had appeared. Jack contemplated the least embarrassing way to get one into his mouth. He was still trying to work that out when Will cleared his throat.

"We don't have to do this now," Phryne said.

"Er, of course not," Will said.

Jack wished he was undignified enough to hook the whole plate with one arm and just stick his face into the biscuits.

Phryne smirked at Jack. She grabbed a biscuit, took a bite, and then offered it to him mischievously. Jack glanced around the table, but everyone had suddenly found some other direction to look, so he leaned out at took a bite of the proffered treat.

"Mmm," Jack said without thinking. His mother must have shared the recipe for his favorite biscuits.

"I swear, you'd go home with anyone who fed you," his mother said.

"Really! And I thought my food was just exceptionally good," Phryne teased. Jack felt light enough to drift away from the table; their easy repartee had reappeared.

"Mr. Butler's food, to be fair," Jack corrected when he was sure his voice was steady. Phryne wrinkled her nose at him and took a bite huffily, before offering him another turn. Jack chewed and marshaled his thoughts.

"The sooner I give a statement, the better for the case," Jack said almost apologetically to Phryne. His parents excused themselves, his mother kissing his forehead as she passed.

"I heard rumors about a smuggling operation, that the leader was a member of Melbourne society," Jack began to tell Will. "Mr. Charles Roberts had compiled a dossier on the man he believed to be in charge, his son-in-law, George Culver."

Phryne was biting her lip. Jack raised his brows at her.

"Mr. Roberts is dead, Jack," she said. Jack ground his teeth in anger, but he wasn't surprised. If the younger Culver had been worried enough to abduct Jack, he wouldn't hesitate to kill Mr. Roberts. Jack wished he'd made the connection earlier; the well-meaning old man might still be alive.

Phryne shook her head at him and squeezed his wrist. "There's nothing you could have done."

Jack pushed the guilt into a corner of his mind to deal with later. He focused on Phryne's delicate hand where it rested on his wrist.

"I saw the car at the crime scene when you nearly crashed into it," Jack couldn't quite resist saying to Phryne.

"I did no such thing," she said with a sniff. Neither of them mentioned their fight.

"When the rego came back to George Culver, I figured he had killed an uncooperative associate. When I went to see his wife, Doris, she gave me a recent picture…"

"And you found out it was George who'd turned up dead," Will finished.

"Never got a chance to put the information to any use," Jack said bitterly. The rest of this story would be harder to tell.

"It was late on Wednesday night when they…" Jack stopped. He'd brought his revolver home, but left it in his coat by the door. They overpowered him so easily. How could he have been so stupid, so weak?

Phryne was arguing with her eyes again, but she didn't interrupt. Her thumb was rubbing little circles on Jack's wrist. He allowed himself to be distracted by how much that gesture warmed him, and then forced himself to keep talking.

"I hid the rego for you to find," Jack told Phryne.

"A name might have been more helpful," Will said blandly.

"I didn't have time. I heard the floorboard in the front room creak, and my notebook was in my hands, so I just tore out the page and hid it in the first place I could think of." When one lived alone, the silence of an empty house was a familiar companion, and that creak may as well have been a scream.

" _Anthony and Cleopatra_ sprang to mind?" Phryne asked innocently. Jack wasn't going to tell her just how often she'd been on his mind, and in what ways. Not in front of Will, anyway. He did intend to make it abundantly clear to her later, though.

"Shakespeare again? A more logical choice, at least," Will noted. Jack glared at his friend.

"Robert wanted to know what other information I had, who else he needed to kill to keep his secrets safe," Jack said, leaving out whole swaths of painful details. From the look on Phryne's face, she was filling them in for herself.

"The registration led us to the Culvers' house, but Robert telephoned while we were there," Phryne said remorsefully. "She must have mentioned us to him, because by the time we got the property records, they'd moved you."

"They had one of the clerks in their pocket. A cousin who worked at the office, he was supposed slow you down," Jack said, to lessen her guilt. Phryne's eyes narrowed.

"They moved me, but you got my message," Jack said hurriedly, before she had time to plan an elaborate retribution on the clerks. To his surprise, Phryne ducked her head, shamefaced.

"We didn't understand what it meant, at first," Will explained.

"It was an obscure passage!" Phryne said, pleating the tablecloth with her free hand. She'd understood exactly what he meant, but only part of it, Jack guessed. The important part, as far as he was concerned, but perhaps the less immediately useful one.

"Well, I couldn't very well write 'It was his brother' and expect them to leave it there, could I?" Jack tried to tease. Phryne smiled weakly, but it was a smile.

"Once we figured out George's brother was involved, we went back to the records office," Will said, as Phryne didn't seem inclined to continue, "Miss Fisher had more luck persuading them to cooperate."

"We women have our ways," Phryne said airily. Jack suspected her ways might involve more firepower than the average woman. Or man, for that matter.

"Robert Culver was managing an abattoir in Richmond, barely 15 minutes from the docks," Will said.

The abattoir. Jack wanted to scrub his face his hands, but had to settle for swiping his forearm across his forehead. He was already so tired again, and he didn't want to relive the last, utterly bleak moments of his captivity.

Phryne made a face at Will.

"Miss Fisher gave us a complete account of what happened after she arrived," Will said quickly. Jack doubted that, but Phryne had probably given them the less personal details. Probably. He'd have to get the rest onto paper eventually, but Will had enough to work with for now.

Jack nodded wearily. His head was remarkably heavy, although if he went to sleep now, he'd probably have nightmares.

"Back to bed with you, I think," Phryne said, standing and coming to his side.

"I'm fine," he lied, as she knelt beside his chair and pulled one of his arms across her shoulders.

"Perfectly fine," she said. "That's why you're having trouble keeping your eyes open." She stood again, pulling Jack up with her. He shot a menacing glare at Will, who was looking inordinately pleased with himself. What part did he think he'd played in any of this?

Jack tried not to lean on Phryne too heavily as she escorted him out of the dining room, but he was almost as glad for her support as he was for the excuse to touch her. They exchanged a glance at the bottom of the stairs, which seemed to have gotten much taller since Jack had seen them last.

"Perhaps the couch in the parlor, for a nap?" Phryne suggested. Thank goodness, Jack thought. He wasn't sure if he could make it up the stairs, and he certainly wasn't ready to navigate the troubled waters of their current sleeping arrangement.

When Jack was sprawled out in the couch, reclining almost comfortably among far too many pillows under a light blanket, Phryne perched carefully on the edge beside him.

"I love you, Phryne Fisher," he told her. They were the only words he could think to say, and he could say them now without fear.

"I love you too, Jack Robinson," Phryne replied, her face lighting with that tender smile Jack had only recently discovered. He had to shut his eyes for a moment, just to make sure she'd still be there when he opened them again. She was.

Phryne picked up his right hand and pressed her lips to his bandage wrapped knuckles, before pulling it to her chest. Still holding his hand, Phryne leaned down and kissed him, a gentle kiss that was more about intimacy and comfort than lust. As Jack drifted to sleep with the smell of Phryne's perfume filling his nose, he finally named the feeling of buzzing warmth suffusing his body. It was love, and more than that, it was hope. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but he couldn't wait to find out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this fic. It obviously isn't the end for Phryne and Jack. Whether the show survives or not (do what you can on that, people), there are other authors, stories, and adventures for them. And even if, heaven forbid, this community goes quiet, we will take a piece of Jack and Phryne with us when we leave. It has been a pleasure to share my piece with you.
> 
> This fic started from an article I read. Apparently isolated people have a higher death rate, not from choking on frozen dinners, but from the emotional burden of aloneness. I'd been marathoning MFMM, and I thought, Jack would understand that. But Jack, for better or worse, doesn't exist. His ending is safely beyond the grasp of the real world. So I wrote him, and Phryne, a happy one. And I've arrived at that ending only to discover it's more of a happy beginning. Thanks for taking that journey with me. Enjoy.

Phryne made sure Jack had fallen asleep before she quietly slipped out of the parlor. DI Taylor was finishing up his notes in the dining room when she rejoined him.

"If there's nothing else, DI Taylor, Jack seems to be a light sleeper, so..." Phryne stopped just short of telling the man to leave.

DI Taylor pulled his face into a frown and gathered his papers, but it did nothing to disguise his obvious cheerfulness. No one could have missed Jack's slightly-too-tender smiles for Phryne, though his father willfully ignored them, but she wasn't sure why DI Taylor looked like a cat who'd caught a canary. She glowered at him, but he was apparently as impervious to Phryne's scowl as he had been to Jack's.

"Don't you have a killer to interview?" Phryne asked, with dangerous patience.

"Culver's not up to talking, at present," Taylor replied. His toothy grin was decidedly sinister.

"Resisted arrest, did he?" Phryne asked savagely.

"Something like that," Taylor replied. The men of City South had rushed into the abattoir to rescue their chief inspector, guns and batons at the ready, only to find the suspect already subdued and Jack barely conscious. The blow to their prides aside, no one was unaffected by Jack's injuries. They had lined up, an impromptu honor guard, as the stretcher had borne him out, their faces showing the fury and hurt Phryne felt. She imagined it had been a painful ride to the gaol for the criminal. She smiled viciously.

Phryne accompanied Taylor back to the hall, but she was already thinking about Jack, asleep in the next room. He hadn't eaten much, and was all this sleeping normal?

"Erhm," Will cleared his throat. Phryne realized she'd completely missed whatever he'd said.

"I'm sorry, inspector, what was that?" she asked, fidgeting. Mac would be by later, to change Jack's bandages, but Phryne decided she'd better telephone for a quick consultation.

"It's Will, please, Miss Fisher," he said, pausing again. Phryne tried another frown on the man.

"My wife died while we were away at war," DI Taylor said bluntly. Phryne blinked, her expression softening. "Jack did right by me, gave me somewhere to stay, even though he was having nearly as hard a time of it. And _that woman_..."

Phryne didn't have to ask who _that woman_ was. She knew Jack's relationship with his ex-wife had dissolved when he'd returned to her a stranger with a deceptively familiar face.

"I know I overstepped," DI Taylor finally said. "But this time, I had to do something if I could." It was an explanation for his not-so-subtle manipulation, for using Jack's coat to shock her, but it wasn't an apology. And Phryne forgave him, because he wasn't apologizing. She wouldn't have asked forgiveness for protecting Jack either.

Phryne held her hand out to Will, and he shook it.

"Thank you," Phryne said, more for his loyalty to Jack than for his meddling. Phryne was completely confident she'd have gotten around to figuring out she loved Jack without anyone's intervention. Eventually.

* * *

Phryne posted Dot and her mending in a chair by the dining room window, with firm instructions to turn away any further guests _before_ they knocked, and curled up in one of the armchairs across from Jack with a book to stare at blankly. Jack slept peacefully, while Phryne alternately dozed and fretted. Mac had reassured her that Jack was on the mend, but worrying about his health kept Phryne from worrying too much about everything else, all the unanswered questions.

Afternoon sunlight was warming the room when Jack stirred. He made an aborted attempt to stretch, flinched, then opened his eyes and looked around in momentary confusion. When he met her eyes, Phryne smiled reassuringly. Jack returned her smile but didn't settle back again.

"What?" Phryne asked, fear spiking in her stomach. She was on her feet and across the room to him in an instant, putting one hand on his forehead to feel for a return of his fever.

"Ah, no, I'm fine, really," Jack said. "I'm just done with lying around on my back." Phryne could think of half a dozen absolutely inappropriate responses to that statement, but she settled for a sultry smile as she helped Jack extract himself from the pillows and blankets. Jack tsk'd and ignored her expression.

"My parents?" Jack asked, once he'd swung his feet to the floor and sat up.

"I convinced them to step out for an afternoon at the foreshore, although your mother didn't require much convincing," Phryne told Jack. He shook his head ruefully.

"My mother doesn't miss much," he warned Phryne.

"She doesn't remind me of anyone," Phryne teased. Jack shrugged, not exactly disagreeing. Phryne thought he was more like his mother in temperament than Jack would ever admit, despite his superficial resemblance to his father.

Jack was looking at her with narrowed eyes.

"Should I invite you to sit in your own parlor?" he asked. Phryne was still standing awkwardly in the center of the room, having been unable to decide whether she should return to her chair or sit down with Jack on the couch. Phryne flopped herself down next to Jack, silently daring him to comment on her flightiness. He didn't, beyond one of his slow blinks.

The silence seemed very loud to Phryne, as it lengthened. Jack was frowning, lost in his own thoughts.

" _Hamlet_? Really?" Phryne asked, more to break the silence than to dispute his choice in desperate coded messages.

"I thought it was fairly good," Jack said a little defensively.

"Some of us have better things to do than memorize Shakespeare's entire body of work, you know," Phryne said.

"I'm sure," he replied, tone carefully neutral. Phryne bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…I know you have meaningful things to do," Phryne said contritely. Jack looked at her sideways, one eyebrow creeping up quizzically.

"You're confusing me again," he told her.

"Well if it wasn't so easily done…" she said tartly, before cutting herself off with a wince.

Jack was trying to frown at her, but Phryne could see his roguish half-grin hovering on the corner of his lips. Phryne blew out her breath in a windy sigh, and then laughed at herself. Jack was still Jack, whatever else had changed between them.

"It's a bit late to start treating me like I'm made of glass," Jack said.

"I was afraid you'd been broken," she said softly, finally relaxing enough to scoot closer to him on the couch.

"Not broken," Jack confirmed. He hesitantly put his arm across her shoulders, and Phryne eased her body against his, so their sides were touching. Jack's breath hitched, and Phryne checked his face for pain, but he only smiled a bit uncertainly. Phryne reached across him to take his other hand, wishing she could twine her fingers in his. Later, she thought. Later they would discover what all he could do with his exquisitely long fingers. They sat in a much more companionable silence, watching shadows track across the room.

"No more broken than usual, anyway," Jack said eventually. Phryne hadn't realized he was still thinking about her comment, while she'd been contemplating entirely more pleasant subjects. She wished he hadn't been. When he met her eyes, his were suspiciously moist. Phryne squeezed his hand.

"Thank you," Jack said.

"For what?" Phryne asked, confused.

"For...for finding me," Jack said. With a pang, Phryne remembered the surprise on Jack's face when he'd met first met her eyes from the abattoir floor.

"You didn't think I'd look?" Phryne asked, trying and failing to keep her distress out of her voice. Surely Jack didn't think so little of her?

"I believed that you would look…" Jack began, but he had to stop to swallow. "I _knew_ you would look, it just kept running straight up against everything else I believed. I couldn't believe I'd be found."

Phryne shook her head, not understanding.

"I knew _you_ would look," he bumped her sternum with their joined hands, "but I couldn't believe it would be for _me,_ " finished, with a sweeping gesture and grimace at himself.

"That. Is. Ridiculous." Phryne told him, startling a smile out of him. "I love you, Jack Robinson. And as I am unrivaled in sophistication and intellect, you must be too."

"Yes, we all know you have excellent taste in men," Jack said, resignedly. Phryne huffed at him, but he had reminded her of something she wanted to discuss. Actually, she didn't _want_ to discuss it, but she felt they should get out in the open, before it could poison this…whatever it was they were building together. Phryne didn't have a name for it, but it was beautiful and precious, and she wanted to protect it.

"I'm sorry," Phryne began, "For the fight at the crime scene." As much as she hated to apologize, she owed Jack one, for what she'd said and for saying it in front of his colleagues. And worse, those angry words might have been her last to him.

"No, it was just as much my fault, I over-reacted to…" Jack stopped.

"Mr. Butler mentioned you stopped by, when I had a gentleman friend over for dinner," Phryne said as gently as she could.

"It shouldn't matter, I have no right…" Jack began.

"It does matter though," Phryne cut him off, before he could trivialize his own feelings. Whether he had a right to be upset or not, he had been. Needlessly, as it turned out.

"I won't lie to you Jack, I intended for the evening to end exactly the way you believe it did," Phryne began.

"I don't think I want to know," Jack said. Phryne kept talking straight over his protests.

"But it didn't go to plan."

"I really don't want to know," he said a little louder.

"While it's generally considered romantic to whisper a man's name during a seduction, it's most effective when you say the name of the man you are actually in the process of seducing." Phryne felt the hint of a blush heat her cheeks.

Jack's face was perfectly blank. Phryne arched her brows and waited for him to figure out what she was saying.

"You said..." his face morphed into complete incredulity. "Not...my name?" Phryne rolled her eyes and nodded.

Amusement warred with embarrassment in Jack's expression, but both lost to something more like pride as he shot Phryne a slightly self-satisfied smirk. She reddened a little more, but was glad for his reaction. For such an intelligent man, he really did have a few not inconsiderable blind spots, mostly around his own worth. Phryne wondered what or who had convinced him so thoroughly that he mattered so little. She hoped one day Jack would tell her, and also that he hid her pistol and dagger first, as it was likely to make her very angry.

"I love you Jack, of course your name is the first on my lips," Phryne told him, to drive the point home.

They sat quietly, though Phryne could practically hear Jack rearranging his preconceptions. Watching his face surreptitiously, Phryne saw Jack's brows come together with an almost audible click as he developed a question for her.

"Yes, inspector?" she asked, with only a hint of her earlier sass.

"Your face, when you decided not to shoot Robbie, when I told you…" he ran out of words abruptly.

Phryne could see how much even starting to ask that question had cost him. It brought tears to her eyes, to remember Jack curling up around his hurt, slipping away. Phryne had hoped against hope that she hadn't caused his withdrawal, but he'd seen her reaction after all, when he first told her he loved her.

"I was just...I am scared," Phryne said. There was so much more to say about the past, but not today. It would hurt Jack to hear it, and he'd done enough hurting recently. Jack startled her out of her contemplation by kissing her cheek.

"A shockingly rational reaction, I think," Jack said, and Phryne knew it was as close as he could come to admitting he shared some of her fears. She smiled as his breath tickled the hair on her neck. Phryne tilted her head toward Jack, and he rested his cheek against her hair with a quiet exhalation.

"Mmm," Jack said.

"Did you just make your 'favorite biscuit' sound at me?" Phryne asked him, amused by the comparison.

"Mmm," Jack replied. Phryne could feel him smile into her hair.

"What now?" Phryne asked after a while, hoping Jack would have an answer to the question that had kept her up most of the night.

"I don't know," he said.

"What, no plan?"

"I'm experimenting with the technique. Or lack of it," Jack said with mock sternness.

"Flirting with disaster?"

"Certainly with chaos, as often as I possibly can, Miss Fisher," he said. Phryne preened, as if he'd paid her the highest possible compliment.

"I'm flirting with seriousness," Phryne said without even a hint of it in her tone.

"You haven't been serious since 1918," he reminded her and she smiled at the memory. "And I've been nothing but," Jack added very quietly.

"I'm pretty confident I can help with that," Phryne said angelically. She kissed the tip of his nose as evidence. He snorted, then kissed hers in return. Phryne drew back a bit, rubbing her suddenly itchy nose.

"We still haven't solved what we're going to do about this," Phryne said, gesturing to the space between them. Jack tightened the arm that was now hooked around her waist, pulling her close again.

"I can think of a few things to try," Jack said, his voice a low rumble that she felt where their chests touched.

"Be serious," she told him jokingly, even as she tilted her head and offered him the long column of her neck. He obligingly kissed his way up to her face and nibbled her earlobe. Phryne smiled to herself. Jack was a biter after all.

"I thought maybe we could just...do the same things we normally do, only...more of them together," he said almost shyly.

So Jack had a plan after all. That was comforting, really. And it was a simple, reassuringly flexible plan. Phryne had no objections, except...

"There are a few things I insist we do together, and exclusively so," she allowed the huskiness in her voice to leave him no doubt what exactly she was talking about.

"Only a few?" he countered, but his body suddenly relaxed against hers. Phryne realized how truly worried he'd been as the last of his tension drained away. This was perilously close to a commitment, and Phryne generally avoided those at all cost, but if the price for being commitment-free was losing Jack, then the cost was too high. Besides, her policy of safety through emotional solitude no longer seemed nearly as effective or attractive as it once had.

"That should leave us _some_ time for solving this mystery," Jack said, mimicking Phryne's gesture, though there really wasn't any space left between them.

"It is what we do best together," Phryne said, resting her forehead against his.

Jack shrugged noncommittally. Surprised, Phryne leaned back so she could read his expressive eyes. They were twinkling with a delicious mix of love and joy, along with a healthy undercurrent of desire. Phryne's stomach lurched even as an answering happiness flowered in her chest.

"We might discover something we do better together," Jack said, a smile blooming across his face. "After all, we haven't tried everything, yet."


End file.
